


For Want of Ivory

by Vampmissedith



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 137,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampmissedith/pseuds/Vampmissedith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When former pop musician Gary Barlow meets the beautiful and somehow familiar Mark Owen, his mundane life based on routine changes in ways he never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this between May - November of 2013 for my best friend, Mark. It has been sitting on my desktop since then and it is only at his insistence that I decided to post it. He also looked through this to catch any typos, of which I am eternally grateful.

Los Angeles was too bright, too hot, too much of everything for any sort of permanence. Billboards set up within metres of each other, offering plastic solutions to plastic people. Walking into a diner afforded him dozens of patrons and servers with the same hair, same style, turning far too straight and white teeth in his direction with stretched, practiced smiles that looked genuine, save for the eyes; always had to keep the eyes nice and wide; no crinkles on the corners or squinting. Every waitress, waiter, cook, taxi driver, chauffer, and cashier had the same job title; actor. They all had their headshots back home if you wanted to see, and everything and everyone was beautiful.

And he’d stuck out like a sore thumb, with his lazy eye and extra weight, with hair shades away from the sunny, light locks that had surrounded him. He’d been almost blond when he was younger and tried his hardest to keep it that way, but his hair had only grown darker and thinner as the years wore on, and bleaching it throughout the nineties had been as pointless as the anti-aging creams on his mum’s nightstand when he’d hit his teens.

As pointless as the notes he’d obsessed over for years.

He didn’t know what unsettled him more; the _Village of the Damned_ -esque uniformity of it all, with the tall, tanned men who towered at least four inches above him, chiselled cheekbones and prominent jaw line radiating Hollywood and shirts just snug enough to let the world know that yes, he was toned and slim but broad-shouldered like the prince Mummy told you about in fairytales, and the smooth-legged, small-framed women with bubbly laughs and sultry smiles, doe-eyed innocence and perfect hair tosses, or the fact that in spite of how fake it was, it bothered him he didn’t fit with that crowd at all.

It was vain and utter crap really, being forty-two (two decades too old for LA), simultaneously snorting at how typically fake that beauty was and wishing he could be the same. It was more than that, though. It wasn’t that he wanted it; not solely, anyway. It was more the fact he’d never had it, and never would.

Everyone wanted to be a pop star or actor growing up. Even the astronauts and biologists had their daydreams of signing autographs and really, truly mattering to thousands of people; inspiring them with their words and films and books and songs. Everyone wanted that.

But not like he’d wanted it.

It went further than envying that which he’d never had, but headed straight into feeling as though it had been snatched from him.

He didn’t tan, he burned pink and his hair, though lightened by the sun, hadn’t reached the shade of blond he’d always envied. It was just a lighter shade of brown. He hadn’t lost any weight and he still stood at 5’8, and even if there were actors his height and shorter, they certainly didn’t weigh over two hundred pounds and they had the jaw and cheekbones to make up for it.

Nobody broke into the pop scene past thirty, anyway.

Suffice to say, by the time he’d boarded the aeroplane, he was glad to be leaving.

Manchester wasn’t where he’d wanted to end up, not that there was anything wrong with it. It was lovely, really, but it hadn’t been what he’d pictured for himself. He hadn’t made it forty minutes from his hometown, and he’d planned for so much more than that; sure, he travelled a bit, but it wasn’t the same.

Still, it was home, and there was comfort in familiarity. 

There was comfort in stepping foot in the same home he’d bought fifteen years ago, sleeping on his mattress that he’d had longer than the house, and to wake up to music playing on his favourite oldies station; in walking the path he’d memorised long ago beside faces he’d seen before, even if he didn’t know their names, and going to the diner he favoured.

That being said, he almost groaned when he saw it was Jeannie who was seating him. At least she wasn’t his waitress. Though he’d been friendly with her for the two years she’d worked there, she’d never seemed to take a liking to him. It wasn’t like she was blatant about it, but he much preferred Carlo or Sandy. Even Steve, even if he could be pompous.

“LA didn’t work out for ya?” she asked, leading him towards the table with the uneven legs.

“Er, worked just fine.” 

“I thought you were movin’?”

He smiled at her as he sat, having learned not to put his hands on the table ages ago. “No, was only a vacation.”

“Hmm.” Though she smiled politely at him, her lips were thin and pinched together. “Well, that’s good I s’pose. Any longer and you woulda been a lobster.”

“Yep,” he agreed dully, stretching his lips into a smile. At least he hoped it was a smile and not a grimace. Although she was exaggerating, it wasn‘t by much. After the stinging pain and mild peeling on his second day, he’d taken no chances and lathered himself with sunscreen in the morning and rubbed himself with aloe before settling in for the night, and still his face was pink from the sun and his shoulders stung a little.

“Sandy will be right with ya,” she promised, turning and walking away before her sentence was completely finished.

Gary looked out the window and tapped his fingers against the table casually. He mentally followed the notes his fingers drummed, even if it was a shapeless melody he concocted off the top of his head. If it was any good he might memorise it and tinker with it at home, but so far it was aimless and wandering. Not that it mattered, as nobody would hear it anyway and he hadn’t touched his piano in ages.

Though the music playing in the diner was from the crap Top 40’s station, it was always at a low volume so it didn’t grate on his nerves, and often drifted into the background noises of the other patrons chattering and forks scraping on plates. He’d learned awhile ago when the perfect time to show up was; just after the breakfast rush, but before the lunch crowd. With less people to serve, they were quicker with his food, and it was always hotter when it arrived. He could smell coffee and tea brewing. The homey atmosphere left him feeling peaceful, and especially after the hustle and bustle of LA, it was particularly welcoming. 

It was a warm morning, though not nearly as warm as LA had been. He heard that there was a chance of rain and he didn’t doubt it; even if the sky was currently clear, he knew how fickle the weather could be. He actually hoped it would rain; a light drizzle would be particularly nice. At least they’d managed to finally get out of the long winter. It wasn’t as if they lived in Canada; there was no excuse to have snow on the ground for as long as they had, and he’d never particularly liked winter anyway. It was so bland and white and everything was dead; he much preferred spring, when everything was alive, and fresh, and colourful.

“Hello, I’m Mark, and I’ll be your server for this mornin’.”

Gary turned away from the window to look at his waiter (who was obviously not Sandy). He’d been going here for fifteen years and not once had a server named Mark. He’d sounded much younger than he was, but he still couldn’t have been that old. Gary hazarded a guess in his mid-thirties, so around the same age as Jeannie, Steve, and Sandy. His smile lit up the room and Gary swore his eyes sparkled, though of course they were sitting at an east-facing window and the sun beamed directly into the diner, so there was that. He was short and thin, and stood with his feet together. Déjà vu hit Gary in the chest. He hadn’t seen him around before, at least not consciously, because he was sure he’d remember him if he had. Still, something about his grey eyes and wide grin clicked in Gary’s head. His voice, the way he tucked his longish, brown hair behind his ear, his pointy shoes; everything struck him as familiar.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was hired a few days ago. It was lucky, really, that I came into this job. I’d only lived here for a week.”

“So you’re new in town, too?” And he’d moved to town after Gary had left on vacation, so he hadn’t recognised him from walking around Manchester. “Where you from, then?” It was unlikely, but maybe he’d grown up in Frodsham. Gary grew up there and he did visit his Mum from time to time, so he might’ve seen him there.

“Oldham, originally. Well, I was in London for awhile but I moved back to Oldham for ‘bout a year, then came here. Why?”

Gary hummed. Maybe he resembled an old friend, then. “Just wondering.” It wasn’t until the table dipped underneath his elbow and he lost his balance that he realised he’d been staring, and about to rest his chin on his palm.

“Well that’s not a really good table now is it? Why don’t we see about getting you a new one, then?”

Gary smiled “Thanks.” He got out of his seat and it didn’t really occur to him until he was standing and moving one table over why he didn’t ever simply move himself, or ask Jeannie not to sit him here.

Mark waited until he was settled in the booth before he pulled out his notepad and pen. “Now that we’ve got you nice an’ settled, what can I get you to--”

“Oh, no Mark, honey, you’re in the wrong section. Those are your tables, over there,” Jeannie interrupted, walking briskly towards him. She stopped at his elbow, eyes as wide as her smile, chest pushed forward a bit. Gary hadn’t heard her ever sound so nice before, or use a term of endearment. “These are Sandy’s, remember?”

Mark scrunched up his nose and tilted his head. Gary felt the corners of his mouth tilt upward at the expression. “Are you sure? ‘Cause I thought we were doin’ the sections counter-clockwise?”

Jeannie opened her mouth, but looked at Gary before she said anything. She blinked and looked over her shoulder at the table where she’d seated him, then back at Mark with her eyebrows furrowed. “Did you move him?” She smiled, but it was forced.

“Yeah, the table’s all rickety, we should probably see if there’s somethin’ we can do about it.” He tossed his head to get his fringe out of his eyes; it was pointless, as his hair fell right back into his face.

Jeannie looked away from Mark and met Gary’s eyes. Her already fake smile faltered and looked more like her lips pulled over her teeth. It reminded him of LA. “Oh well why didn’t you say so? I would’ve given you a new table!” Though she spoke to him, she giggled in Mark’s direction and touched his shoulder briefly.

Gary feebly half-laughed--which was to say he opened his mouth silently and let out some air--before saying; “I don’t know.” When her giggles died down, Mark chuckling as politely and humourlessly as he had, there was a moment of silence in which Gary wondered why he’d even pretended to laugh in the first place. 

Before it got too awkward, Jeannie pointed over her shoulder. “I’m going to check with John real quick about the tables, all right?”

Mark nodded and she hurried off. As soon as she was out of earshot, he turned back to face him. “Sweet girl, Jeannie. Actually she’s the reason I got the job.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, it was luck though, really. Just bumped into me on the pavement when I was movin’ into me flat. She apologised and helped me carry a few boxes in, said that they were short staffed and needed a new server.”

“Oh did someone quit?”

“No, she’s gettin’ promoted to assistant manager I guess. Worked out well enough for me, though.” He placed his pen to the pad and grinned widely, and even though being friendly was part of the job, at least Mark made it look genuine and met his eyes. 

The fluttering in his stomach must’ve been hunger and his dry throat had to be thirst. He cleared his throat and moistened his bottom lip. “You’re gonna hate me but she’s right. This is Sandy’s section; she always serves me.”

Mark’s smile faded and Gary pointed behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see Sandy coming their way and Jeannie watching. “My mistake. Well, I hope to be your server sometime soon, Gary.” He winked at him and gave him a tiny bow before leaving for the other side of the diner, where an elderly couple sat.

Before he made it to the table though he looked over his shoulder, which meant he could see Gary gazing at him. It was probably why his brows were furrowed, so Gary quickly looked at Sandy and smiled.

“You know who he is?” She jerked her head in Mark’s direction. 

Something the elderly couple said must’ve been funny, because Mark’s rich, deep laughter carried across the diner. Gary’s stomach swooped and something in the back of his mind whirred.

“Er, no. No, he just had the tables mixed around. Seemed nice, though.”

“He is _cute,_ isn’t he?”

He would’ve gone for beautiful.

“Um.”

“Well, I guess you wouldn’t notice, being a guy and all.” 

Gary shrugged. “I guess I wouldn’t.”

“So, the regular then?”

He smiled at her. “If you would, please.”

She didn’t bother writing it down on her notepad. She smiled at him and lightly touched his shoulder. “I’ll get right on it. It’s good to have you back.”

She left and his eyes dragged over to Mark, almost magnetically. He laughed again and déjà vu stirred around him, making his stomach drop as if he’d missed a step going downstairs. Something about the way he moved, laughed, spoke, felt so familiar he couldn’t shake it, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. The reason danced on the edge of his mind, just moments away from piecing it together.

When Mark turned away from the table Gary quickly looked away and continued tapping the melody stuck in his head against the tabletop. It wasn’t polite to stare, and he might get the wrong idea if he caught him.

* * *

Gary made a habit of going to the diner every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It was close by and he liked eating out. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook. Cooking was simple, even though baking had always been a chore, and he watched almost everything Jamie Oliver did, so that wasn’t an issue at all. The problem was that could slip into the routine of eating the same meal for a week or eat nothing but crisps and microwaveable burritos throughout the day, and that wasn’t something he wanted to relive again. Most importantly, going to the diner got him out of the house. It was dangerously easy to stay cooped up in his place if he had no reason to leave, only moving from his bed to the kitchen and then sticking to the sofa, watching telly.

Besides, it was a cosy diner, and with the exception of Jeannie, who he rarely saw, they were all friendly.

As he normally got there when there were hardly any other customers, he usually got his pick of booths and they’d learned long ago where to sit him, unless it were Jeannie who often sat him at the wobbly table. That, though, changed, because someone had fixed the table, and Jeannie was gone (either she worked a different shift, or as the assistant manager was off doing something away from the dining area). He always went for breakfast and always ordered the same thing.

That being said, for the last month he’d considered changing which booth he chose and even his schedule. He’d always seriously think about it for awhile, asking to be sat elsewhere or going on a different day, but he’d set foot inside and at the last minute pick the same table, or get halfway to the diner on a Thursday or Saturday before changing his mind and heading elsewhere. 

It wasn’t that he was scared of changing his habit. No, that wasn’t what gave him pause at all. If it was simply about switching around his routine then he wouldn’t have hesitated at all. It was _why_ he was considering it that stopped him.

It was Mark.

He’d already had his ways set before Jeannie or Sandy or even Carlo had started working there, and even before he hadn’t picked a certain table or day for a specific person. It was just how it happened; it had fallen into place. Suddenly changing that and sitting in Mark’s section and, as he’d only see him on Wednesdays and Friday, switching out his Monday for a day he knew Mark would work, would be verging on creepy. It was borderline stalking, and God knew what Mark or the others might think if they noticed (which they would).

And it wasn’t out of anything sinister or sexual or whatever it was that motivated stalkers. It was simply out of curiosity. He was new; something different in his routine, and that was already interesting, but beyond that, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen him before. Living in the same place for years, and furthermore the same area for the majority of his life, did that. Without being aware of it, he had to have seen the same people every day of his life, but Mark was new to Manchester, so that couldn’t have been it, and even if that were the case, he was sure he’d remember. Mark wasn’t the kind of person he’d glance over without a second thought. But to change everything over something as little as déjà vu? That was insane, even if Mark always smiled and greeted him with a wave from across the diner.

Although, Mark aside, he might change what time he showed up anyway, if he could figure out what time was best. In the past two weeks, the diner got busier, which normally wouldn’t have bothered him, except that the past two Wednesdays, he’d had to wait for nearly thirty minutes before being seated and he would’ve left, except that he hadn’t had anything else to do.

Fridays tended to be busier, but today he’d seen the loaded car park and went back home to get his car and do his errands first. On his way back home it was half empty, so he’d pulled in to find the place still quite full. 

“I guess Jeannie really knows how to promote a place,” Gary aired casually to Carlo as he led him to his usual spot, which was empty.

Carlo snorted and rolled his eyes. “Funny.”

He would’ve taken offence at Carlo’s tone, except Carlo had never had an attitude about anything undeserved. If he took a tone with someone, there was a reason for it, always. Even if he was still young, he seemed mature. At least it seemed that way to Gary. “I wasn’t jokin’. It can’t just be me who’s noticed how busy this place has been.”

Carlo stared at him. He hesitated for a moment before continuing to lead Gary. “It wasn’t Jeannie. In fact she’s not happy about it at all. Gotta say, though, I’m glad we finally have an assistant manager who’s not afraid to stand up to John. He’s such a cock sometimes.”

“It’s sudden but I’m sure the business will help you all out.”

Carlo looked away from Gary for a moment with his brows knitted together. He bit down on his bottom lip and his dark eyes met Gary’s. He opened his mouth, then shook his head with scoff and a smile. “It’s complicated, but uh. Yeah. I guess it will. It’s nice to hear something positive.” His words were as false as his smile.

Gary didn’t push. Carlo wasn’t dumb enough to think Gary bought it. But that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? People lying to each other, knowing that the world was aware of it, and everyone playing along anyway. He understood how irritating the sudden influx of business would be, considering he found it annoying too, and he didn’t even have to work with it. 

“Sandy will be right with you.”

Gary scanned the place after Carlo left the table. He could still hear the Top 40 station, but not as clearly as before. He saw Mark walking away from a table with his lips pursed tightly and one of his fists clenched. The table he left had two men and one woman around Sandy and Jeannie’s age; the two men were laughing, but the woman sat as far away from the man who shared her side of the booth as possible, pressed against the wall and staring out the window. 

Gary frowned, but Sandy was at his table a moment later. “Hello Gary.” She grinned at him and touched his shoulder. “How’s your day been? Coming in later than usual, aren’t you?”

“Er, well. It was so packed earlier.”

Her eyes moved away from his and to her notepad. “Well, it’s good for business I guess. The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

She touched his shoulder again as she left and he saw Mark out of the corner of his eye with a platter with three large glasses on it. Mark saw him and slowed his pace. He smiled and Gary waved at him. Mark smiled wider and nodded before going to the table he’d left. Gary couldn’t help but smile at the tabletop and he admitted that, even if that was as far as it ever went, he always looked forward to whatever nonverbal greeting Mark sent his way. Though he didn’t want to say it aloud, that particular bit had nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with the way Mark’s smile lit up the room.

* * *

Belly full, Gary paid his bill and left a generous tip for Sandy, as she’d been running around for multiple people throughout his visit and someone had made a rude comment about her not pouring coffee fast enough, loud enough for Gary to hear and get second-hand embarrassment. It wasn’t the first time someone had been rude to her, and she’d always been kind to him so whenever it happened he tried to give her a little extra, hoping it would make up for it.

It had started raining a few minutes ago and even if it wasn’t a heavy rain, it was still enough for the chill to send instant goosepimples along his skin as soon as he stepped outside. The grey skies made it look later than it really was, and Gary figured it was luck that he’d actually had to bring his car this time, as it wouldn’t have been pleasant to walk.

He made it two metres from his car when he saw Mark out of the corner of his eye. The outside of the diner was whitewashed, so he stuck out noticeably pressed against the walls by the metal bins. He had his back against it and head tilted back, eyes closed, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The awning above him protected him from the rain, but it was still unlit. 

Gary froze. On one hand, it might be odd for him to strike up a conversation with someone who only ever waved at him because his job required him to be friendly to the customers, and he didn’t appear to be in a great mood either, but on the other, talking to him couldn’t really cause much harm, could it? It wasn’t as if he’d be overstepping too many boundaries, and if Mark was visibly uncomfortable with his presence he could leave. The only reason he even hesitated was because he’d had that mild fixation, and were it under any other circumstance he probably wouldn’t have thought twice before going over to him.

He turned on his heel and approached Mark, whose eyes remained closed.

“Everything all right?” He immediately thought of four better ways of greeting himself.

Mark’s eyes snapped open and he jerked away from the wall.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to--”

“No, it’s fine, really.” He grinned wide, so Gary believed him. “Finally decided to come say hi, then? Been wonderin’ when you would.”

Was his wince only internal or actually physical? He hadn’t meant to be so obvious in wanting to speak with him. “Oh. Well, I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother. It’s my job, really, being friendly. Course I can see why you prefer Sandy.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Gary snorted because it wasn’t about Sandy, it was about the spot, but it was funny anyway. “So what are you doing over here by the bin? I know it’s not raining too hard, but it’s probably not the best weather for smoking.”

“I’m just on me lunch break. We’re not supposed to stay where the customers can see us. I would go to the break area inside but . . . Well, John’s in there and we’ve not got along well, really. Besides, we’re not allowed to smoke inside, anyway.” He searched his pockets, cigarette bobbing in his mouth while he talked.

“Bit cold though, isn’t it?” 

Mark shrugged as he pulled out his lighter. Even if the rain was light, it was silly (honestly, the weather this year hadn’t been that warm, even for spring) and even if Mark was under the awning, his face and hair were damp, fringe stuck to his forehead. His maroon shirt had darkened from the rain, as had the black trousers they were tucked into.

“You could come sit in me car if you want, you know.”

The lighter was in front of his cigarette, one palm blocking the wind. Mark’s grey eyes slid over to Gary’s. Maybe he’d overstepped the line, and he would completely understand if he said no seeing as they didn’t know each other, but it was bloody cold out, not to mention wet. Gary hadn’t been out too long and already he felt nippy.

Mark took the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between two fingers. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. You look like you’re freezing.” The side of Mark’s mouth tilted upward, and Gary jerked his head in the direction of his car. “C’mon.”

Letting Mark into the passenger side and shutting the door for him was probably overly polite, but he did it anyway, and it didn’t escape his notice how date-like the gesture seemed. When he slid into the driver’s side and shut the door behind him, the quietness of the inside of the car leaned towards awkward. He’d not once invited any of the other servers he’d ever had into his car; then again, he’d rarely ever brought his car in the first place. Still, not even Sandy, who was his normal server, had had any kind of contact with him outside of the diner. He knew nothing about Mark, except that he was beautiful and had striking grey eyes and the kind of smile that lit up the room. Familiar or not, he didn’t know a single thing about him, and he sat mere inches from him in the quiet car, rain pattering around them and streaking down the windscreen.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No, not at all.”

Gary heard the snick of the lighter and smelled the smoke Mark puffed outward. He didn’t look at Mark, however; kept staring towards the diner, the rain warping his view entirely. “Do you want one?”

Gary finally turned to look at him, at the cigarette between his small fingers and how he brought it between his lips. He could easily picture a younger Mark, a teenaged Mark, blowing smoke-rings and laughing at Gary’s failed attempt at doing the same. “I haven’t smoked since the nineties,” he told him, and wondered if what he’d imagined was another in a long string of If Onlys that his life had become.

Mark rested his head against the seat and stared out of the windscreen. Gary eyed the translucent, grey shadows the rain made across his face, like dark spots dripping over his damp, pale skin. “This’ll be my fifteenth time quitting, if you catch my drift.” His deeper-than-he-expected chuckle shot straight to his chest and gut, so Gary tore his gaze from his face and settled on the steering wheel.

“Not easy, that. Quitting.” He remembered what smoking in the nineties meant for him, and he hardly had any room to talk. It wasn’t as if it had ever really become much of an addiction for him. “So I’ve heard, anyway. Can’t much say I’ve got room to talk about quittin’. It wasn’t anything ever more than every now and then, for me. Don’t think I ever really wanted to allow myself to really pick it up. Wanted to protect my vocal chords and all.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard someone tell me that, I wouldn’t be workin’ here.” He lowered the window a few inches and Gary nearly asked why before he saw Mark flick some ash into the rain. “So you sing then?”

Gary looked out his window. Mark couldn’t have known that would leave a sting behind his sternum, and he had opened himself up for the question. He never quite knew how to answer it when people asked. “No,” he lied, because saying anything else would open the door for more questions, questions that would hurt even more than the lie (which wasn’t too far from the truth anyway, even if he hated admitting it).

“Hmm.”

Gary looked towards Mark again. His brows were furrowed and the cherry burned orange, his lips puckered around the base. He blew smoke out, eyes never leaving Gary. “What?”

Mark shrugged. “Figured that you sang is all. Protecting your vocal chords. Just seemed like you would be.”

Gary opened his mouth. He wanted to tell him that actually, yes, he did sing, and he had, and explain why he’d lied (judging by Mark’s expression, he hadn’t believed him anyway) but instead he asked; “Do you sing?”

Somehow he knew the answer before the question had even fully left his mouth.

Mark chuckled and shook his head, flicking his cigarette out the window, even though it wasn’t done yet. The laughter wasn’t humorous, though. The bitterness crawling in Gary’s chest seemed to have infected Mark, because when he stopped, his lips were pinched together in a wan smile. “Yeah, I guess I do. Who doesn’t?” He rolled the window up. “Well, apart from you.”

“I wasn’t . . . entirely honest.”

“Why lie? You just don’t sing very well or what?”

Gary rubbed his eyebrow. “It’s, er. It’s a long story.”

Mark checked his watch and then tapped it. “Well I’ve got forty minutes left. Think you could squeeze it in?” He raised his eyebrows and smiled cheekily.

Gary felt his mouth tug upwards, but it was half-hearted. “Maybe some other time.”

He registered warmth on his knee before he realised it was Mark’s hand. “I’ll hold you to that, Gaz,” he promised with a squeeze, then pulled away.

Gaz.

It was hardly the first time anyone had called him Gaz (he’d heard it a lot when he was younger, but apparently the usage of nicknames dwindled with his age) but he liked it. It clicked and made sense; felt right in Mark’s mouth. He remembered parties and the hope of making it, people talking of how well he was doing and how he’d do even better; clinking glasses of wine and people calling him Gaz, as if they were his closest friends, and he’d been foolish enough to believe it. He could see and hear it almost clearly in his mind, an image of Mark being there, saying the name along with the others, but actually meaning it.

How could he feel loss over something that had never happened? Yet another If Only to add.

“So why stay here at all? You could go off somewhere close, get something to eat.”

“My car broke down. I’ve just been taking the bus. Dunno how long I’m gonna have to but it is what it is, y’know?”

“I could--” He stopped himself before the rest of the sentence could tip out without his permission. Of course he’d started already so Mark stared at him expectantly. He had to say something now. But what if it was weird of him to offer? Well, Mark was smoking in the car of some bloke he didn’t know already, what was one more suggestion? “If you wanted,” he started again, perhaps a bit too gently, “I could pick you up and take you home.”

Mark blinked and opened his mouth. He blinked again, and a third time. He must’ve pushed too far. 

“If it’s not too much trouble, of course I’d--I mean, if you’re . . . certain it would be all right with you?”

Gary grinned briefly. “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t all right. So what time do you get off?”

“Five. Nine to five, bankers’ hours. You know, I worked in a bank, before--well, before. Once before. When I was seventeen. So I’ll, uh . . . So you’ll be here, ‘round five?”

“Swear it.” He smiled and made a crossing motion over his heart.

“Thank you so much. I don’t mean to be awful but I hate the bus. So many stops, and it’s not very clean all the time, y’know? But I’m too far to walk. Well I guess I could but it’d take forever, wouldn’t it? Don’t know about you, but I like my sleep.”

“It’s done, then. I’ll pick you up.”

“Thanks, again. It really is very helpful.” He touched his knee again, squeezing just as softly as before, and Gary felt his lips tugging upward against his will, so he ducked his head a bit to hide it. “That yours?” Mark asked when he removed his hand, gesturing to the iPod he had hooked into his stereo.

“Yeah. We could listen, if you want.”

“That would be great.” His wide smile was infectious.

He turned the car on and started the iPod. The rich sounds of Elton filled the air and he looked over at Mark; he had no idea what kind of music he’d like. “If you wanted to look through it and pick something, you can.”

Mark made a noise of what sounded like assent, but leaned against his seat, head tilted upward and eyes closed. He shouldn’t stare, but Mark really was beautiful, especially sitting like that; relaxed, damp hair falling in his face.

Gary tore his eyes away and sat, staring at the windscreen, with water distorting the world outside; the rain had picked up so it was heavy now, but Gary hadn’t noticed when it had. It was relaxing, though; sitting in a car, Elton playing, with the sounds of water pattering outside and the grey, cloudy sky raining down on them. 

“I knew you’d be an Elton fan.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Had you pegged right off.”

Gary closed his eyes and smiled wide enough his cheeks ached.


	2. The World By the Tail

There was no need to brush his teeth (having brushed them when he woke up) or to touch up his hair and change his shirt. All he was doing was picking up Mark and taking him home; it wouldn’t take too long and it wasn’t as if changing his shirt would go unnoticed. But he did anyway, and he checked his reflection in the mirror more times than he felt comfortable admitting, and found an excuse to trim his facial hair, though it was hardly more than stubble and not in any need of any snipping.

Gary was in no way fashion conscientious. That wasn’t some sort of self-depreciative statement or joke; he wasn’t being ironic or moping about it. It was a fact. He appreciated when other people looked great and he enjoyed a well-tailored suit to look at, but he just couldn’t be bothered, himself. If he wasn’t going anywhere for the day, he felt no shame in wearing a tracksuit. Or the same tracksuit the next day, either. Khakis and a plain tee, with trainers, was something he’d throw on when he was in the mood to look nicer than usual, but for most days jeans and a tee would do. He’d never been great at implementing any kind of noticeable style. He’d never known, or cared to know, the difference in necklines and cuts of trousers and which ones went together and why people needed four pairs of shoes or belts. He only put forth the extra effort in his appearance for certain events--church with his family or dates, and it had been a damn long time since he’d done either.

Even if he would chase the thought out of his mind as soon as it crept in, he knew why he was doing it now and where it would lead if he didn’t stop. He couldn’t go there; not again.

And yet he plugged his iPod into his speakers at home, sang along to Elton and ABBA and left earlier than he should’ve, in more of a rush than he ought to have been, and checked his teeth in the rear-view mirror as he pulled into the diner and parked ten minutes early.

And realised that he’d left his iPod plugged in at home.

It had been great earlier, when they sat under the drizzling sky for more than a half hour, listening to his iPod. Just the two of them, humming along and analysing lyrics and composition together. It was an amazing feeling, being able to really discuss music with someone else. That wasn’t to say he’d never talked about music before, of course not; but he’d not once, not for as long as he could remember, really sat down and dissected it like that with anyone. Three songs into their listening session, Mark had said; “I love this part,” and soon after, they were excitedly picking out strings and bridges, eyes alight with notes and Mark ended up being two minutes late back to work.

Gary grinned every time he remembered the way they both said; “Oh, the strings,” at the same time during one song. While Gary had held back one of his embarrassing giggles, Mark had openly chuckled and locked gazes with him, which prompted him to quickly start talking about the verse, because his chest tightened and the silence had been heavy. He really shouldn’t have been focusing so much on it, but he couldn’t stop and he’d been looking forward to having another discussion about music while he drove Mark home, albeit a (presumably) short conversation. Now, though, he couldn’t, as he’d left his iPod at home.

He’d have to settle for what played on the oldies station.

He hadn’t noticed the silence in the car until he parked, since he was going to have to wait awhile as he’d shown early. He turned it on just to hear the tail end of a Michael Jackson song, one from the nineties (which in his opinion was far too new to be on the oldies station, but then again maybe that was denial of his own age talking) and after the obligatory between-songs DJ comment, went into Billy Joel.

When Mark popped out of the diner, his head swivelled around for a few seconds before he caught Gary’s eyes through the glass. Gary waved and Mark grinned, hurrying across the car park towards the car. Even though it wasn’t raining anymore the skies were still a little dreary, but Mark was a ray of sunshine in the midst of dismal grey.

He opened the door and poked his head in. “Hello!” he greeted in a voice as sunny as he made Gary feel before sliding in and shutting the door. “Ah, the oldies but goodies station?”

“My, uh. My iPod was dead so I left it at home to charge.” It was better than admitting he was in such a rush he forgot. “You don’t mind, do you? You can change it, if you’d like.”

“No, it’s great, really. I love me some oldies, y’know? Course that’s not to say there’s not anythin’ good playin’ nowadays, I’m just a bit behind on the times. I like Florence and the Machine, though.”

“Me too. Oh, and Adele. Love her.”

“Me too. Wish they’d play more of the good stuff on the radio y’know? There is some good stuff, if you look for it.”

“Top 40’s utter shite, though,” Gary grumbled as he started the car, the ignition roaring over the stereo as he pulled out of his parking space. Mark chuckled and he stopped at the exit of the car park. “So which way?”

“Oh, left. Thanks again, Gaz, honestly I can’t tell you how much it means, really.”

“You’re welcome.” He pulled out into the street and started going left. “Well, it’s not like the oldies station is getting better. Before you got off work, I was sittin’ here for a bit, and they were playin’ Michael Jackson. From the nineties. Isn’t that a bit too new for an oldies station?”

“Seems like it, I s’pose, ‘til you realise that the nineties were twenty years ago. You know they were playin’ disco in the nineties, remember? It’s when disco tried to come back for a bit.” Mark shifted enough for Gary to notice in his peripheral. “You know, bands were doing covers and . . . all that.”

“Oh right. I remember. There was Relight My Fire, wasn’t there?” Mark’s smile was as pained as Gary’s memory of it. He’d _hated_ that cover. If he were honest, the hate wasn’t entirely out of how bad it had been, but there was no need for him to tell Mark that. It was a painful story Gary would rather avoid remembering. “Jesus, and Could It Be Magic. Terrible.”

Mark made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strained laugh. “Er, yeah.” 

“And er, what was it? The A Teens? The ABBA revival . . bit.” Gary shook his head with a huff. “They were crap.”

“Who, ABBA?”

“Oh no, no. I love ABBA. I meant the A Teens. But you’re right. Guess I just don’t want to think I’m that old yet.”

“Just ‘cause they’re playin’ the nineties doesn’t make us that old,” Mark murmured at his knees.

Too old to get another chance, though. It was over for him. “Easy for you to say. What are you, mid-thirties?”

“Forty-one, actually.”

“Oh, well er. You look good. Much younger. Thought you were Jeannie’s or Sandy’s age.”

“Well thank you. Turn right up here.” Mark pointed at the traffic light ahead.

The song ended and the DJ started talking about some concert ticket giveaway they were doing; started rattling off the phone number and the details on how he could win. He stopped at the red light and mentally answered the question the DJ presented to the audience. Even though he had no intention of calling up, because he didn’t particularly care for the band they were giving tickets away to go see, he always contemplated calling. It was egotistical of him, but he always wanted to call just so people could hear he was right.

“Stealer’s Wheel,” he answered as the light turned green.

“Hmm?”

“The band, who sang that song. It’s Stealer’s Wheel. There’ll be tons of people who call in sayin’ it’s Bob Dylan, though.”

He turned right and started down the street as the DJ gave the phone number for the station again. Mark was quiet; much quieter than he had been during lunch and Gary’s chest tightened and head spun with all the ways he must’ve made Mark uncomfortable. Had he been too friendly? Too loud? Had Mark liked A Teens? Was he coming off too arrogant? Or did he just have a bad day at work?

The DJ gave the numbers a second time (he always gave the number three times; once at the beginning, and twice at the end) and a commercial started.

“So Sandy tells me--she talks about you a lot--she tells me you were off in LA on a vacation?” Gary nodded. “You know, I’ve got a friend, Rob, he lives in LA.”

“Yeah? He American?”

Gary looked over at Mark briefly to see him smiling at the dashboard and shaking his head, as if Gary had said something cute. “No, no he’s not American. He only moved there. We actually met when I was nineteen or so. Best mates, really. Been there for me through so much. But uh, did you like it there, LA? Oh, and not this turn, but the next, if you could take a left that’d be good.”

He nodded to show he’d heard. As far as anyone else was concerned, his vacation was good. Which wasn’t too far from the truth. It was all right and everything a vacation should be; bright sun, worry-free days with no scheduling, listening to I Need You To Turn To on repeat and feeling more connected to it than he had before, getting a newfound fondness for it that he hadn’t had in a long while for no particular reason he could think of, but . . . .

The false smiles, practiced walks, and head tilts; perfect makeup and colouring and everything and everyone placed _just_ so in order to look pristine and perfect, and him feeling childishly envious and out of place had put a damper on it.

“It was . . . all right. I had fun but it was . . . . Guess it served as more of a reminder of the things I was tryin’ to get away from. Dunno if that makes sense.” He turned left, deepening the wrinkle in between his eyebrows with yet another furrow.

“It does.” It was said with the weight of someone who really understood, which made Gary feel better. It was strange, he supposed, that he’d tell Mark, someone he didn’t know, about his vacation before the waitresses and waiters who saw him every week and had served him for years, but it felt right somehow.

Another commercial ended and the DJ came back on, answering a call. Gary turned the volume up when a man answered. He and Mark looked at each other with childlike grins, and burst out laughing when he gave the answer as Bob Dylan.

The DJ had to tell him he was wrong and wished luck to the next caller, giving the station’s phone number twice in a row for clarity before sliding into a song.

Mark cleared his throat and Gary glared at the radio. Ten seconds in and three words crooned from the lead singer later, Gary hit the seek button, going to the next available station. His lips pursed immediately and he shook his head. He wasn’t sure he was going to like the nineties being a part of the oldies station anymore.

“So you’re not a Take That fan, then?”

Gary shook his head and checked the rear-view mirror; some prat was practically riding his bumper. “Absolutely not.” Gary slowed to a stop at a stop sign and the car behind him braked. The driver made a rude gesture that Gary saw in the mirror and he rolled his eyes; even if there wasn’t much traffic down this road, he still had to stop at the sign.

He started driving again and the man behind him honked before speeding past him. Gary squeezed the wheel but kept the colourful insult that danced on the tip of his tongue behind closed lips. He would’ve simply growled it had Mark not been sitting next to him (even quieter than before) but he didn’t want to come off rude or anything.

The current autotuned song ended and a commercial started playing. Mark still hadn’t said anything, and it had been at least three minutes.

“I’m sorry,” Gary said when he thought back to when Mark had stopped being so bright and friendly.

“For what?”

“About what I said. They’re not total shite,” he said grudgingly, taking a glance at Mark, who narrowed his eyes at him. “Look, to be honest there’s some bad blood there.”

“It’s fine, really. Take a right, up here,” Mark said with a false smile, pointing at the stop sign.

Gary turned on his blinker and slowed to a stop. “I didn’t mean to . . . If you’re a fan of them, you know. I didn’t meant to offend you.”

He stopped at the sign and the loud commercial faded, the blinker clicking the only sound filling the car for a second.

“I was _in_ Take That.”

Gary’s heart dropped out of his chest just as the next commercial blasted suddenly into existence.

He turned down the street and his mouth worked soundlessly, apologies half-formed never leaving his lips. It took him almost five seconds (though it seemed like much longer) to finally spit out; “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“Mark, I’m so sorry, I had no idea--”

“Don’t worry, really. It’s completely fine, we _were_ shit.” He let out a sigh and shifted in his seat. “This sounds awful, but I just didn’t want you knowing who I was.”

“It’s not awful.”

It wasn’t awful in the slightest, and Gary couldn’t judge him for it, as he felt exactly the same. There were days he understood more than he wanted to admit. Though he more often wished he still mattered enough to someone that they would know him immediately, seeing him now, compared to how he was then? That was something else entirely. It was better for people to know you at your best, than recognise you at your worst and see how far you’ve fallen.

Going from Take That to a waiter in a diner was a pretty steep drop.

“It makes sense though. I’ve been wondering why you looked so familiar,” Gary said, glad to have finally figured it out. Even if it was almost twenty years ago, they had been plastered all over the place. He hadn’t been able to go anywhere without hearing their songs, seeing their faces, seeing an interview or music video on TV, and even after they dwindled into obscurity, as all boybands did, Robbie Williams had sky rocketed to insane fame and, even if his history in a boyband was largely forgotten, it still twisted Gary’s insides.

Of course, Take That as a band being tween-girl famous wasn’t the only reason Gary recognised him and he knew it, but he wasn’t about to dwell on that. Allison was long gone, and he didn’t need the guilt that always came when he thought about her.

“It’s why everyone’s angry with John. He sort of advertised me working with him on the business website. Facebook, Twitter. I don’t . . . much like being exploited, I guess I should say. Guess I was asking for it, though, I was known for stripping off me clothes and rubbing against me bandmates.”

“No, he’s being a prat, Mark. He shouldn’t have done that.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll die down, it always does. Eventually.”

Mark sunk down in his seat and Gary, figuring the song must’ve been over by now, switched the station back to the oldies. “You like Pink Floyd?” he asked to fill the otherwise silent car, although he knew Mark did. He must’ve read it in a magazine when he was younger or seen it in an interview.

Mark smiled and nodded. “Yeah.”

Gary swallowed the lump in his throat. “I meant it, earlier. There really is bad blood. I’m still bitter over the whole thing, really. Shows I need to grow up, eh?” Mark turned his head to look at Gary, eyes moving down then up his face curiously. Gary cleared his throat and focused on the road. “I think I remember you now. Mark . . . Owen. You did that solo album, right?”

Right, as if Gary didn’t know exactly who he was now; as if he hadn’t listened to his albums to near exhaustion, looking through lyrics books and analysing. He hadn’t recognised Mark immediately because those pictures on the album were old and he had different hair now, plus he was wearing a uniform. Not to mention it had been years since he’d given him a thought, and he’d kept it that way intentionally.

“Yep, that was me. The short, naïve one; thinkin’ I could come out and do a solo record.”

“Don’t see why that’d make you naïve. You should go out and do solo albums, or at least try. You had no reason to think it wouldn’t work. You were all popular back then, weren’t you? Hell it’s what I would’ve done.”

“Er, Gary . . . .” Gary waited for Mark to finish, but after a few moments of silence he must’ve changed his mind. “Turn right at the next intersection.”

Gary waited until he’d turned before talking. “It’s not naïve to try, Mark. At least you actually did somethin’. Nothing wrong with coming out with your own material.” Definitely nothing wrong with it, if the memory of it was enough to make his mind buzz the way it did when he heard an old favourite on the radio and warmth spread the way it did when slipping an extra blanket on the covers on a slightly-chillier-than-normal night.

“I meant I was naive to think I could release an album after coming out.” He must’ve looked as confused as he felt, because Mark continued after a second with; “I’m gay.”

Gary was trapped between saying; “Oh,” and; “Of course, right,” and even a little bit of; “Sorry, I misunderstood.” He always tripped when it came to people talking about homosexuality. He thought too hard on how to react; he didn’t want to come off as too interested for obvious reasons, but he didn’t want to come off as repulsed either, because he wasn’t, if the thrill that shot through him meant anything.

In the end, he chose to say and do nothing.

“Does that bother you? I can understand if it does,” Mark said, in a small voice, after a few long seconds. Saying nothing had been the wrong decision, then.

“Of course it doesn’t bother me.” He flashed a smile at Mark, politely, then focused back on the road. “It’s a shame that it mattered, though, isn’t it? That being gay has anything to do with how well your music sells.” His chest twisted as he spoke; had he said too much?

“A shame, yeah, but reality. Had me head in the clouds, unfortunately.” He sat up straight, seatbelt pressing against his chest, and he pointed out of the windscreen. “That’s me, there.”

Gary had been focusing too much on Mark, Take That, and his strong pulse in his ears and wrists and the way Mark’s hand had felt on his knee earlier, and the fact he was gay and beautiful, to really pay much attention to the area. Now that he pulled up beside the pavement, though, he could see Mark was staying in a dingy flat on a dodgy street.

Every bit of shame he’d felt at his own descent switched immediately into guilt. Mark may have been far more beautiful than Gary would ever be, but he’d never lived in a place like this. No wonder he didn’t want people recognising him.

“Thanks again, Gary. It means a lot.”

The car idled and the radio still played--an old Beatles tune, though one of the more popular (and less good) ones--and Mark’s grey eyes had dark circles beneath them. He didn’t smile, and the glow he’d had about him when he’d first entered the car was gone.

It wasn’t fair that Gary knew so much but he’d stayed closed-lipped.

“Mark--” he started, just as Mark unbuckled himself. He stopped moving, eyes on Gary expectantly. He tried to push it out; he really did. It was nothing compared to Mark’s story, so he shouldn’t be afraid to say it. “I was thinking,” he said instead, giving up and internally shaking his head in self disappointment, “that if you wanted, I could take you to and from work until your car gets fixed? Public transportation is such shit.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t--I couldn’t ask you t--”

“Well you’re not asking, are you? I am. It’s not a problem, Mark. Really. I liked driving you, and there’s no need for you to waste your tips on fare, is there? You should save it up for a mechanic.”

Mark’s mouth worked silently for a moment. “That would be wonderful, really, but if--you don’t have to--”

“I _want_ to.”

Mark’s eyes ticked to the radio and then back to Gary’s face. Finally, he nodded and smiled. “That would be great. Really. Did you . . . I could give you my number, if you wanted. You could ring me later and we could . . . work out times and stuff. It would really be a life saver, Gary, really, if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Mark smiled, then reached into the pocket of his uniform shirt. He pulled out a pen and pointed at Gary’s hand. He offered his hand and Mark held it, turned it over in his palm, and scrawled his number along Gary’s wrist. The feel of the pen gliding over his skin almost tickled and the shiny black stood out against his pale tone. “Ring me when you get home and we can work out a time. Does that sound all right?” Mark slid his pen into his breast pocket. 

Gary pulled his hand back into his lap. “Sounds lovely.”

“See you tomorrow, then?” Mark opened the car door to leave.

Gary nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

“By the way, Gaz,” he said, slipping out of the car, “you look great.”

Maybe double checking his teeth in the rear-view mirror far too many times and changing his shirt wasn’t pointless, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to everyone who has been reading and to my friend Mark for reading this again! It means a lot to me.
> 
> Reviews are much appreciated! 
> 
> Have any of you seen Take That in concert? I've only ever seen the DVDs, but what's it like being there? Let me know in the comments. Any advice/tips? I'll be in London. 
> 
> Also, even if it's just a dollar, if you can, I wouldn't say no to a donation to help me see them in June. Click [here](http://www.gofundme.com/t4ncb35w) to donate.


	3. Are You Someone You Recognise

It had taken Gary five minutes after getting home to actually dial Mark’s number, but when he did he was glad to hear his voice on the other end. He’d paced as they talked and rubbed the back of his neck, biting down on his bottom lip like a teen boy talking to someone he fancied. He almost told him he had his albums; had the words on the tip of his tongue, wanted more than anything to say Mark was better than Take That and his words were beautiful, but he worried Mark would see through that (honest though it was) and catch onto more than he was willing to ever share.

When he slept, he dreamt of being in a car (not his, though he was in the driver’s seat) and sitting with Mark while it poured buckets around them, I Need You To Turn To playing on the radio. Mark looked young, like how he must’ve in the nineties, and he woke with the imagined taste of nicotine on his lips and deep chuckles in his ears; told himself he’d forget the last half of that dream, but vivid thoughts of skin on skin and hands in trousers were difficult to ignore, especially when he was brushing his teeth just minutes before he needed to leave and drive to a flat belonging to the person in his dream.

He needed to get this silly thing under control. He was in his forties. He was much too old for this, and it was pointless; it couldn’t go anywhere, not ever, with anyone. Not again.

Yet he picked Mark up and let him choose the music; talked about lyrics and notes on the way there and made arrangements to pick him up at five.

And spent the rest of the day looking forward to it.

* * *

Being the manager meant John got all the perks he wanted, including control over the schedule, so he never worked weekends. Which was a plus, really, as Mark would rather eat in the break room than outside; he always felt exposed and stuck out like a sore thumb, with a bit of yogurt by the big bins. Especially since people actually knew who he was now, and anyone parking or leaving would see Mark bloody Owen of Take That in his pathetic uniform sitting by the rubbish. Just because he felt like tossed out trashed didn’t mean he had to be seen as such.

It was the designated smoking area, though, so after his quick lunch he went out and smoked, smiling at a woman who passed and nodded at him in greeting. As always, Mark wondered if it was a polite nod she gave habitually to anyone she passed, or if it was a greeting she gave to him because he was Mark Owen.

It was something that he might not ever shake off, even long after people stopped knowing who he was (if that moment ever came). Maybe that was worse, though--the fact that one day, people might not care who he was at all. At the moment, however, it seemed like a blessing.

People didn’t know him because he was an inspiration. They knew him because he was a has been. They knew him as that cute bloke from that old boyband their sisters and girlfriends had obsessed over twenty years ago. It would be different if someone ever came up to him to say that one of his albums changed their life, or that they loved his talent, but nobody ever did. No, it was always; “I used to have the biggest crush on you!” or; “You were always my favourite!” or the ever lovely; “My sister liked you a lot,” because God forbid a heterosexual man admit to liking Take That.

The constant fear in the back of his mind that any man who chatted him up was only interested in his fame had long gone, though, because nobody gave a shit anymore. That was one thing that worked out in his favour. 

At least Gary hadn’t known who he was, and even if he did now he wasn’t a Take That fan--far from it, actually, whether it be due to whatever bitter memory he had attached to it, the fact they actually hadn’t been any good, or a combination of both. Mark committed how often he caught Gary’s eyes following him to memory because he was gorgeous and had an air about him that left him almost breathless with the want to touch him. He was certain he could feel a charge between them, though that could’ve just been Gary recognising him but not knowing from where. That didn’t explain Gary’s waving at him whenever they locked eyes, or inviting him into his car, and offering him a ride, though. Perhaps he was just friendly, but Mark put his money on it being something more than that.

Though the continual ride to and from work was probably out of guilt for insulting Take That, so maybe Mark was counting chickens.

Gary wasn’t the only one struck with déjà vu. The moment he saw him, Mark had thought he looked familiar. Judging by the fact Gary owed him that long story, he was pretty sure there was a reason for that. Considering the topic of the discussion that had brought it up, he had a good idea that it had something to do with singing. He would’ve searched him online, but Mark couldn’t afford internet and he didn’t know his last name. 

Sandy probably did, though.

He crushed the fag beneath the heel of his shoe, hating that he couldn’t quit. He was much too old to be hanging onto this filthy habit, but he supposed nobody his age really wanted to smoke. He’d tried quitting but it hadn’t panned out. He felt like a former smoker, and yet he wasn’t at all former. If only he actually were all the things he felt he was, maybe then he wouldn’t be a waiter in a diner with men tossing slurs at his face and scribbling insults on their receipts to make up for the insecurity of their girlfriends fancying him.

He walked around to the back. It served as an extra parking area when the main one was filled. It was rarely used and thus dodgy from lack of maintenance, though if John’s “publicity” kept up they’d have to start managing it better. He had already talked about tearing out the tree and getting rid of the patch of grass to expand it “just in case” already, though Jeannie shot him down, luckily.

The open window beside the door to the break room carryied out Jeannie’s voice. “I used to be a manager, y’know.”

“Really?” Sandy asked.

“Yeah. Store manager. I was good, too. Was makin’ loads more’n I am here, course. If I ran this place, though, it’d go smooth, like butter.” Even though Mark was outside, he could hear the full weight of disappointment in her tone.

“What happened?” Sandy asked.

“The whole chain of restaurants just . . . isn’t around anymore.”

“That’s a shame.”

Mark opened the door and stepped in just as she said; “It is,” and looked at him. Her dark expression immediately shifted into something brighter, but he could spot a fake smile, no matter how good, a mile away. He’d mastered them years ago, after all. “Having a nice day then?”

“It’s all right.” He shrugged, then looked at Sandy, her long, brunette hair out of the tight ponytail for the moment. She would put it back up before lunch was over, though. 

Carlo and the other guy, he couldn’t ever remember his name, covered for Mark and Sandy while they ate their lunch. She always started hers a half hour earlier than his, so that there was always a server on the floor. Carlo would come in when she left, which would be in a few minutes. It was Jeannie’s idea to schedule the lunch breaks that way, although it went against John’s wishes. He only cared until he realised how much smoother everything went, and then pretended it was his idea all along. 

“I used to edit articles,” Sandy said as Mark sat beside her and across from Jeannie. “It was only for the local paper, though, nothing spectacular. I wanted to apply to become one of the actual writers, there was an open spot, but I realised they’d never take me so I didn’t, but I enjoyed the editing enough. I used to write poetry, short stories, when I was younger. Never published any of them though. Should’ve.”

“Why not?” Jeannie asked.

“I figured they weren’t any good. Anyway, the paper laid off a bunch of editors because you don’t need that many, apparently. That was what, eight years ago? Been here ever since.”

Of course, nobody was going to ask him what he used to do. There was no need.

“Did you have sleeping problems then too or . . . ?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. Actually I didn’t start having problems sleeping ‘til I started working here. Been thinking about getting sleeping pills, though.”

Jeannie nodded, then stood from the table with a sigh. “I better get a head start on my paperwork. If either of you need any help, you come and get me, yeah?”

She left the break room.

It was quiet long enough for Mark to notice the awkwardness, so he smiled at Sandy. “You know Gary?”

She moved her (rather intense) stare from the table to meet Mark’s eyes. Her smile was small, but there. “Oh well yes, of course I do. Gary, er, Gary-Gary?” She raised her hand to indicate his height, which was only a few inches taller than Mark.

“Yes, him. Comes in all the time.”

“Yeah, what about him?” She perked up almost immediately.

“You know how my car’s not workin’ and all, well Gary, he’s really nice, he um, he’s gonna be giving me rides ‘til I can get it fixed.”

“Wow, that’s really sweet of him. He really is just so nice, you know. He always gives me good tips, and he’s always polite.” There were some people who were ridiculously obvious when they fancied someone, and Sandy just happened to be one of them. Then again, maybe she didn’t care to hide how she felt. “You know, he has the most beautiful eyes and a great arse.”

Mark laughed.

“Er, not that you’d, um, notice, being a guy, but he does, I swear.”

“I’m actually gay so believe me, I noticed.”

“Oh. Well anyway, that’s really sweet of him. But you were saying . . . ?”

“I was just wondering if you know his last name?”

She shook her head. “No, he always pays with cash. As far as I know he’s just Gary. He was a regular before I worked here. Why?”

“Well I figure, if he’s driving me home and to work and all, I should know his last name.” He furrowed his brows, because there was a name in the back of his mind; he couldn’t be sure if someone had told him or if it was a name he actually remembered from wherever he knew Gary. Of course, it could be either; Mark had worked here for awhile before Gary had come up to talk to him so one of the other servers might have told him. Still, if Mark was right about his theory, it was probably more likely he remembered from whatever the long story involving singing was.

“I never thought to ask.”

Still trying to capture the name that might’ve been Gary’s, he smiled at Sandy and nudged her playfully. “Don’t mean to pry, but why haven’t you given him your number? Ask him out.” Mark, of course, hoped Gary might not swing in the direction of her gender, but her crush was painfully obvious and, considering that she apparently had a history of writing poetry and not submitting it, he wanted to know. It was always a disappointment to him; people who didn’t at least try. There were so many talented people who went nowhere because they never set out to try and it was a shame.

Then again, what had trying ever accomplished for him?

Her cheeks went pink and she averted her eyes. “Oh come on, Mark. Guys like him don’t look at girls like me. Not until I drop a stone or two.”

Mark frowned. While Sandy was a bit on the chubby side, she was no more overweight than any other woman her age--not more than Gary, certainly. Less, actually. It shouldn’t (and didn’t) matter either way, anyway. “There’s no such thing as guys like him and girls like you. You’re just you, and he’s just him, y’know? Don’t mean to be awful, but anyone who thinks like that, this whole people like me and people like you shit, they don’t deserve your time. And anyway, you’re gorgeous.”

She smiled at him and said; “Thanks,” just as the alarm on her phone sounded. She shut it off and went over to the sink beside the fridge, pulling a hair tie from her pocket. She looked at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, pushing her fringe from her forehead.

“You changed your alarm.” Every time he’d heard it so far, it had been something loud and grunge. Now it was something older, something from the swing era. 

“Hmm?” She pulled her hair back into a tight, practised ponytail, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “Oh right. I change my alarm every few months. That way I don’t learn to hate the song, or get so used to it I sleep through it. It’s Exactly Like You, the Louis Armstrong version. I know it’s old, but I love it anyway. I just don’t know why anyone would close their minds to any genre of music, you know?”

“I like that way of thinking.” Maybe if more people thought that way, his solo albums would’ve sold better, gay or not.

She was almost to the door when a name clicked into place; one he hoped was Gary’s.

“Is it Barlow?” She stopped to look at him, confusion evident in her expression. “Gary’s last name; is it Barlow?”

Sandy shook her head. “No, Gary Barlow’s the guy who--” Her knitted brows straightened and her eyes widened.

The door opened loudly out of nowhere; both Mark and Sandy jumped and Carlo looked at her. “It’s mad busy out there right now, just warnin’ you.”

She let out a frustrated groan and left, lips pursed. Carlo raised his head up in greeting.

“Do you know who Gary Barlow is?” he asked, thinking over Sandy’s reaction.

“Fuck if I know. Sounds like that guy who did the Stayin’ Alive song.” He went over to the fridge and pulled out an energy drink, using his free hand to turn on his iPod that he kept in his pocket. Carlo pretty much only listened to metal and dubstep, and wouldn’t listen to anything made before 1990, because that was when he was born and apparently that was the cut-off date for good music.

“Never mind,” Mark said with a smile. The next few hours until the end of his shift were too many.

* * *

Carlo hadn’t been joking when he’d said it was busy; Mark had been running back and forth non-stop from the moment his lunch ended to the moment he clocked out. It was good for tips, but it didn’t make it any easier to get through the day. He was glad that he wouldn’t have to end it by travelling on the bus. That was never the right place to fix a mood.

Gary waited for him, head leant against the driver’s seat with eyes closed, and Mark slowed as he approached the car, looking at him through the windscreen. He could hear music from within, but it wasn’t loud enough for him to piece together what it was. He stopped near the front bumper and caught himself beaming in the ghosted reflection of the glass. It was nice to grin after a rough day; nice to see the imperceptible smile on Gary’s face. Warmth filled his chest and stomach. He hoped that the charge he swore he felt was more than déjà vu; more than simply being a familiar face in an old band, and whoever Gary used to be before now.

He went to the passenger side and rapped his knuckles on the window. Gary jumped and Mark laughed, letting himself in. “Caught you off guard, Mr. Barlow?” because he was sure it was Barlow now; knew without a doubt, but didn’t know why. He would’ve asked why Sandy had reacted how she did, were it not so busy after lunch.

“You know, Mark, some people might not take kindly to havin’ friends who scare the piss out of ‘em.”

“Here’s hopin’ you’re not like most people then.”

He shut the door and buckled in. Gary started the car, the music filling his ears, but not too loud where they wouldn’t be able to hear each other talk. “Mr. Barlow, huh? Getting formal now, are we?”

Mark smirked triumphantly. “Just checking to see if I had your name right.”

“Googling me, then?”

Mark didn’t much feel like telling him he couldn’t, not at his flat anyway. He’d have to borrow someone’s iPhone or take a trip to the library and use their computers. “Well, I was planning on it. You’re just very familiar to me, and I’m wondering if it has something to do with that long story you owe me.”

Gary opened his mouth, head tilted in Mark’s direction but eyes still on the road as he pulled into traffic. Nothing came out, though.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, of course.” Gary nodded, but his expression stayed blank. 

The brief silence was enough to let Mark know he’d pushed too far.

Well if he couldn’t figure out what this story was today, he could at least try and figure out his other little mystery; whether Gary was more inclined towards women or men. Normally he would’ve been sure already, except Gary’s eyes constantly following him could’ve easily been familiarity and nothing more. 

“Sandy, she fancies you, y’know.”

“Does she?” It was a noncommittal, uninterested tone; Mark couldn’t tell if it was legitimately casual or forced. “Hadn’t noticed. You’re sure?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

“She’s a waitress. She’s supposed to be friendly, isn’t she?”

“Trust me, she likes you.” Gary hummed in thought and looked either impressed or surprised or both. “You never gave her your number?” he pried just as carefully as he watched.

One hand on the steering wheel, Gary used the other to scratch his cheek. “Never crossed my mind, to be honest.” He slowed to a stop at the light.

Mark nodded, still as unsure as he had been before.

“Do you remember A Million Love Songs?” Gary asked after the bridge of the song playing had ended and the light turned green.

It seemed Gary had the innate ability to make him smile. “Of course I do.” He let out a small chuckle, but it wasn’t out of humour that he laughed; it wasn’t entirely ironic, but it wasn’t entirely cheerful either. “I loved it. Always thought, wish this were a song we could do--was still in Take That, obviously. It had emotion, nothing we did had that. Could play it next, if you want.” He gestured at the iPod, remembering being so excited to show the boys the song; how he’d gone to Howard first and wanted to try and get something similar in their next album. The others had been all for it, too, but Nigel had shot them down vehemently; angrily. Said that it wasn’t something their fan base would appreciate, and left it at that.

It had been that song that sent the crushing realisation of what Take That truly was straight into his gut. The moment he heard it, it felt like a song he’d already known and loved; really said something, as cheesy as it was; _expressed_ something. It wasn’t a simple song meant to let thirteen year olds live through vicariously; repetitive choruses and catchy beats with little more than a hook to it, and lacking in any real emotion or depth. It crushed him, knowing Take That wasn’t about the music, and it never would be. It wasn’t about emoting at all; they were products.

“That was me.”

Mark blinked. 

It had been almost twenty years since he’d last heard the song, but he’d loved it; intensely. Bought the whole album, and loved it, too. The name on the album flashed in his mind; a black and white picture of a face, blocked letters spelling a name; Gary Barlow. It really had been locked in his memory, then.

“You sang that? That was--that was _your_ voice?” The clear, beautiful vocals stuck in his mind and it was strange, for some reason, to picture that coming out of Gary sitting beside him, but yet, somehow, it wasn’t really hard to believe at all.

He nodded slowly, brows furrowed. “Yes. I wrote it, too. Lyrics, music. Performed it. It’s all me.”

“Wow, Gaz. Really. You . . . you ought to be impressed, that’s . . . that’s amazing. I had that album, I loved it. The whole--and the whole album was you, too?”

“Of course. I wrote everything, performed it. I’ve been playing since I was eleven, you know. Had this little studio set up in my room--won a contest, actually. There’s a clip on youtube--has about four hundred views, though, nothing spectacular--but yeah. I did all me own work, wrote everything myself. Of course the producers loved that, one less person to pay.” He shrugged as if that meant nothing; as if being able to do that was commonplace.

Mark stared at him; why would he _hide_ that? He knew from personal experience just how hard it was to write and have labels take you seriously. He would’ve loved having a number one hit on the charts for weeks; his solo album had hardly rippled the radio waves, if at all. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Do you--do you realise what I--what Take That--we couldn’t do that. I wish we could’ve, I wanted to. That was real music, you were--and it was high on the charts and everything. I love that song.”

Gary looked away from the road to gaze at Mark; only for a second, but long enough to see that his eyes shimmered. He opened his mouth, but then closed it and looked at the road again. His adam’s apple visibly bobbed and he licked his bottom lip. “I’d been on telly a few times before that. And my first album did great--course, all the music videos were . . . They know ways of angling cameras so you never see just how chubby I was. If you could call it chubby, what I would give to be that thin now, but you don’t see it that way, I guess. I was too fat and pale to go anywhere, and they knew it. High angles, never showing me below the neck when they did close ups. Fucking comments and all, and I can’t dance for shit.”

Mark looked at his lap and nodded. They’d all been fit back then, tan and sexy and everything a boyband member should be, but the moment any of them put on weight, or wasn’t looking their best, Nigel would dole out the threats and insults and blackmail. None of them would ever recover from it, and Howard, with his lisp . . . .

“Tough industry,” Mark agreed. It would hurt to say much more.

“But it did well, and that was, what, ‘93? Then I did a Christmas song album, was all covers. That was ‘94. It did well enough, as well as Christmas albums ever do really. Then I did my second real album, ‘96. Wasn’t a number one, didn’t make it in the top ten. I’d only signed a three album contract and they decided that they’d got all they would from me. So they didn’t make up a new one. It’s all right, though; made more’n enough money from those albums, still livin’ off of ‘em, so it all worked out.” He shrugged as if it was nothing to him; meaningless.

Mark wasn’t stupid.

“You haven’t written since?”

“Not for myself. I wrote for Britney Spears a few times and I wrote something with Donny Osmond. Wrote a bit for telly shows now and again. Now, though, I don’t do much of anything. I get paid to write music reviews under an alias, but I do that on the weekends. Pocket change, really. I actually owned Captain’s, you know the music store, but that was before it was a chain. It was tanking, actually, but someone bought it from me and made somethin’ out of it. I was shit at managing a business, but he paid me more than it was worth.”

He turned down the street, still acting as though everything were calm and boring and meaningless; as if it meant nothing to him. Had it meant nothing, though, he wouldn’t be squeezing the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white with one hand, and incessantly tapping his fingers against his thigh with the other, lips pursed tightly.

“So you have a lot of money then?” It was supposed to lighten the mood, but Mark wasn’t sure he succeeded.

“I have enough.”

Mark knew what that meant; he used to say it too. 

“Well you shouldn’t be embarrassed,” Mark said after a few moments’ silence. “You’re talented. I wish I had a fraction of what you’ve got, y’know? Could do what you do.”

“But you do, Mark.” Mark stared at him, but Gary was looking at the road instead of him, though his face was tilted towards him a bit as if he was seriously considering it, despite the traffic. “I actually, er. Well I do have your albums. I loved them--haven’t heard ‘em in years but . . . Well, someone I used to date loved you, hell I did too; probably more than we did each other. Your music,” he added, looking at Mark briefly enough to smile. “Just haven’t pulled ‘em out since then because . . . Well.”

“Least this time you explained why there’s bad blood.” 

Mark attached, a bit more than he really should have, to the fact Gary said that he and this ex of his had loved Mark more than each other. Gary looked at him this time and Mark smiled. Gary responded by pinching his lips together to hide a smile and looked back at the road.

“Really, Mark, what you wrote? Bloody brilliant. Much, much better than anything I ever put on an album. I remember thinking that much, even if I . . . haven’t listened to it in years.”

“You mean that?” He’d heard it before, but not from Gary Barlow. But as a musician himself, he’d know, wouldn’t he? What he dreamt of hearing. Would he say it just to be nice; because he’d know what Mark wanted to hear?

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t. We listened to it front to back, you know.”

Warmth filled his chest and spread to his cheeks. He grinned and squeezed Gary’s knee. When he should have pulled it away, he let it rest there. His palm buzzed and he imagined, vividly enough that he confused it for a memory of a dream, Gary taking his hand and holding it while they drove, as casually as anything. Of course, Mark had no idea if Gary was even really into him, or if it was a music thing, but he had an idea and only hoped it was more than déjà vu. 

He glanced at Gary and his expression wasn’t unpleasant; calm, even. As if Mark had done it a hundred times, although admittedly, he had touched his knee a few times yesterday so perhaps Gary thought he was a touchy guy. Which, well. There was truth to that, wasn’t there? Not like this, though.

He pulled his hand away as Gary made a turn. “Mind if I . . . ?” He gestured at the iPod; the song currently playing was coming to a close.

“Oh, go ahead, of course.”

Mark searched through his songs for half a minute before he found a Passengers song, and played that. Although Gary was watching the road, Mark saw the side of his mouth turn upwards and one eyebrow quirk. “How’s this?” It was pointless to ask; Mark could read Gary well enough to know he was pleased.

“Great choice.”

They listened and hummed along, though neither of them sang. He wanted to hear Gary’s voice, but he wasn’t comfortable enough with him to start singing himself. He’d never liked his voice; it was flawed and awkward, Nigel had never shied away from pointing out their flaws, and he remembered quite well how clear Gary’s voice was. Even if Gary had said he loved his music, he also hadn’t heard it in years and memory could be a fickle thing.

They listened to music silently after that, only talking to point out a specific part in a song or comment on a clever usage of lyrics. When Gary pulled to the curb in front of Mark’s flat, Mark didn’t unbuckle immediately; the car idled so the music still played, and he sat there while the song finished up.

When the next song started, he unbuckled and smiled at Gary. “Thanks for the ride, Gaz.”

His hand was on the handle when Gary said; “Wait.” The music shut off.

He let go of the handle and looked at Gary. “Yeah?”

Gary’s brows furrowed and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. The silence dragged for another second, and Mark was about to ask Gary what was wrong, but Gary spoke before he could. “I auditioned for Take That.”

“What?”

“That’s the bad blood. I auditioned. Obviously I didn’t get in.”

Mark blinked. “I . . . I don’t remember you, I’m sorry.”

“You wouldn’t. Well, I looked completely different anyway, but I . . . I didn’t audition on a stage with the others or anything. I saw Nigel on my own, had a little meeting. I knew that--I knew that if I got on a stage I wouldn’t pass anything, of course not. I wasn’t . . . I’m not good looking, wasn’t then, was all pale, I wasn’t thin, had crap hair. I’ve got the stage presence of a scone on a stool, really, so I thought--I thought if I talked to him and gave him a demo tape he’d--I couldn’t have gone anywhere dancing or with the way I looked, I knew the only way I could ever get in was if I got in on talent. I thought that I could do it that way, give him my tape and he’d let me in. Naïve, right?”

“He didn’t like the demo tape?”

“He didn’t even take it. Kept refusing, just told me I wasn’t what he was looking for.” He shook his head with pursed lips, eyes looking somewhere in the vicinity of Mark’s forehead, not his face. He averted his eyes a moment later though, downward. “Of course, I shouldn’t have expected anything else, the way I looked. Still, had to try, right?” He met Mark’s eyes again and smiled; it was the painful sort of smile that everyone knew was fake and nobody expected anyone to believe, just hoped that the subject would be left alone or dropped. 

Mark leaned forward and held Gary’s shoulder, locking their gazes. “If it’s any consolation, I wish he would’ve picked you.” He figured it wouldn’t help much, because he couldn’t fix what had already happened, but he meant it. “And don’t say things like that about yourself, you look great. Sandy was just waxing poetic about your eyes during break, y’know.”

Gary laughed, or at least almost laughed; his mouth opened and a chuckle came out, but he clamped his mouth shut and pinched his lips together, as if trying to stop a smile. “Well, if he’d picked me, you probably wouldn’t have been as well known, anyway. Woulda been a joke act, some bleached pale kid tripping all over himself on stage, so maybe it’s good he didn’t.”

“Hey, now what did I just say about sayin’ things like that, eh?” He had to pull his hand away from Gary‘s arm to smack his shoulder gently, then pointed at Gary’s face. “You’re gorgeous, all right? Nigel is a prat, don’t think about him. Besides, your music? Actually meant something. We were just dancing about shirtless in latex most nights, really, singing about nothin’. Look where bein’ in Take That brought me, huh? I live in this shit flat working as a waiter.”

Gary’s face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--” Whatever he hadn’t meant to do, he didn’t say. Mark leaned away from Gary, as he had been invading his personal space. He hadn’t pulled away, though that didn’t mean much. Mark knew very well what being in the music business could do to someone’s personal space; either make them more protective of it, or not have one at all. Even if Gary hadn’t been as famous as they were, he had to have had groupies of some kind and maybe he’d lost his, too.

“It’s all right. Don’t apologise. I made mistakes that brought me here; s’not like it was all Take That’s fault, right? I’m the one who went bankrupt. Dunno why you’d be embarrassed to be Gary Barlow, to be honest with you. People play your songs at weddings. Our songs are punch lines to jokes about boybands.”

“Well, as unpretty as I was back then--hey, you’re the one who asked,” he rushed, eyes widening in Mark’s direction because he’d had every intention to interrupt. “As unattractive as I was then, look at me now. I haven’t been recognised in years, and why would I? I’m over two hundred pounds, hardly look anything like I used to. Haven’t put out any songs, haven’t done anything. I’m not Gary Barlow anymore; I’m a fat hermit who smashed walls in his house to build a studio he never uses. I know you think my music is great and has touched so many people, but nobody’s set up fanpages more’n decade after I sold me last album, even if it’s all a bit retro now, or played my songs on an oldies station ‘cause it might’ve been number one for a time, but in the long term? I don’t matter. Nobody’s ever talked about how I inspired them to get in the music business, or how I saved their lives.”

Mark wanted to roll his eyes and shake his head, say that he didn’t mean that, but that would’ve been patronising, as well as (unfortunately) untrue. There were bands (relevant bands; _great_ bands, like fucking Coldplay) today that said they had Take That as an inspiration; sure, they hardly pinged anyone’s interest _now,_ but he knew some people still talked on forums about them, still listened to them on occasion, even if it was all nostalgia, and even though it had been years, people had said that Take That had helped them through a tough time in their life (though that was mostly when they were still relevant).

Had someone found out Gary Barlow were a frequenter to that diner, or even if he had had a job as a server, it was unlikely anybody would’ve come just for him. 

And yet, Mark couldn’t quite believe Gary had the short end of the deal. Mark was known for Take That, but his own music hadn’t done a damn thing for him or anyone, and it had sent him directly into this shithole of a life. There was being a has been, and then there was being a _pathetic_ has been, and Mark had no illusions as to where he’d fallen.

Of course, anybody having a crap day would wallow and think himself worse off, and it wasn’t right to turn this into a competition. The grass was always greener on the other side, and even if he thought Gary had everything he’d wanted he was sure Gary felt the same about him.

Besides, even if Take That’s music hadn’t been anything special, not really, it _had_ been special to the fans. He couldn’t let himself become so apathetic that only his thoughts on a situation mattered. Even if they weren’t The Beatles or Coldplay or One Direction, they had mattered to thousands, and that was nothing to scoff at, and to blame the band for his position was unfair.

He nodded, staring at the dashboard. “It’s my fault I’m here; working here, at the diner I mean. That I’m stuck in a crap flat livin’ off tips. I spent . . . .” No, that wasn’t the right word, was it? “I _wasted,”_ that was more accurate, “my money on makin’ me own studio, producing my own album, going on a tour that I couldn’t afford, hoping that the sales would cover it. Of course it didn’t. The first two albums didn’t sell so I don’t know why I thought that one would be any different.”

In the silence, Mark wished that Gary’s iPod was still playing, because it would at least feel less awkward. What would it have been like if Gary had been in the band, too? How would he have interacted with the others? Would he and Rob have been friends? How would Mark interacted with Gary? He could lose himself in thoughts of a different world if he wanted, and the best part about that fantasy was also the saddest; he’d never know how it would’ve gone, so he could picture it however he wanted. Maybe they would be doing shows now, names up in lights, fireworks bursting in the skies above Wembley, thousands of fans just happy to see them . . . or maybe they’d be in the same place they are now, sat in a car moping about how pathetic they were.

“Mark.” Mark looked away from the dashboard towards Gary, who stared at him with wide, serious eyes. “We’ve got to start talkin’ about more upbeat things, we’re startin’ to come off really depressing.”

Mark chuckled and it sparked Gary’s own laughter; real laughter, loud and strange and genuinely funny and infectious. Hearing Gary made Mark laugh harder, and they lost it in a fit of giggles. Mark had no idea why it was funny, but it was. Was it the way he said it? The somehow both totally serious and completely innocent expression he’d said it with, or the sudden shift in mood? Whatever the reason, it broke the sombre atmosphere and for that, Mark was more than glad.

Their laughter drifted to a stop but they still smiled at each other, Gary’s eyes sparkling.

“Well I’ll make sure to keep the conversation cheery tomorrow, eh Gaz?”

“Sounds great. See you tomorrow morning then?”

Mark smiled at him. “Yeah. I’ll see you then.” 

Mark honestly couldn’t wait for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to those of you who are reading this fic! If you have any comments or reviews, don't be afraid to leave them. I'm thinking about also uploading this fic to wattpad.
> 
> If you can spare some change, helping me get to England to see Take That (I've already bought the concert tickets; I just need money for transportation and food and plane tickets) would be much appreciated. Donate [here](http://www.gofundme.com/t4ncb35w) if you can.


	4. Save Your Cheers

It was silly, but a part of Gary had thought that once someone in his life recognised him--someone other than those who’d known for years--that it would all crash down on him; that people would see him in the street and shake heads, in pity or sympathy. It wasn’t that he thought Mark would tell the world, but it was somehow a fear that stirred in the back of his mind, and just thinking about that possibility had his stomach churning from imagined embarrassment.

But it hadn’t. When he’d gone to the diner on Monday at his usual time--though he now knew that Mark’s days off were Monday and Tuesday, he still didn’t think it wise to switch his schedule at all--all that had happened was Sandy had playfully swatted his arm and said; “You never told me you were Gary Barlow!” and proceeded to tell him that she’d had a poster of him on her wall, her cheeks bright pink.

She didn’t treat him differently, although Gary suspected that Mark might’ve been serious about the hints he’d dropped about her fancying him. He had said that she’d waxed poetic about him, hadn’t he? Of course, all Gary could really think about was whether or not Mark had joined her.

Which he really shouldn’t, because he couldn’t let those thoughts run rampant in his head more than they already had. He shouldn’t have felt relief when Mark told him he was gay, nor should he notice that Mark touched him quite often, and more importantly, that Gary let him. Besides, Mark was beautiful and thin and Gary . . . wasn’t. He was past the age of hoping one day he’d grow out of an awkward phase and into a beautiful swan. He’d given up on pretending that he could somehow sneak it by and that it didn’t matter. It was a truth, and no matter how many people told him otherwise, people didn’t date people beneath their league; besides, even if Mark did, he was a man, and Gary couldn’t get involved in that.

He fought the urge to text Mark when he got home after eating at the diner. He’d imagined many ways he could send him a text that he hoped wouldn’t look as if he simply wanted to talk to him. The only one that sounded even remotely believable was to ask if he was serious when he thought Sandy liked him, but that was juvenile and he didn’t want Mark thinking he returned those feelings.

Instead of texting or calling Mark, he sat at his piano and played a melody he’d written years ago, one that was ingrained into his muscle memory and he had written down in a notebook he kept in the closet in his studio; imagined releasing an album with that song on it, and remembered that Mark had gone bankrupt doing just that; recalled that the very real fear of that had stopped him from doing the same, not that he’d been in any position to actually do so, emotionally or mentally, when he’d considered it. Even if he entertained thoughts about it now and then, it was pointless to believe it would ever happen. He wasn’t delusional.

He sang the lyrics that nobody would ever hear but him; he thought of going to the studio he never used and recording it, but instead stood in the doorframe like he did more often than he wanted to admit, until he eventually wandered away to plunk away on the piano set up in the living room, another song that would never fall on anyone’s ears but his.

It wasn’t until he had uninterestedly searched on the internet for a few minutes that he allowed himself to admit he was pretending to accidentally remember Mark and idly search him too, and after refreshing Facebook twice and typing Mark’s name in the search bar only to delete it three times, he logged off and parked himself on the sofa, settling on the first channel that didn’t seem to be repeating nonsensical crap about handsome vampires in love or other such shit. 

It was past noon on Tuesday that he smiled at his phone, because Mark had texted him.

_Found you on youtube…..much cuter than you let on….._

His cheeks hurt and his chest was light and airy; he had half a response texted before he wondered if responding too quickly would seem too eager, so he deleted it.

Of course less than a minute later he was texting him anyway, and that was how he and Mark ended up texting each other for the next five hours almost non-stop; to be honest, it probably would’ve made more sense to actually call him and talk, but he didn’t.

It was when he, after Mark had said he needed to go, had “accidentally” found a box of old CDs in the attic he hadn’t listened to in years, nor added to his iTunes library, dug out Mark’s three CDs and stuck them in his sound system, his low voice filling Gary’s chest with something not unlike breathlessness, that he realised just how fucking doomed he was.

* * *

Even if he tried to pretend otherwise, Mark knew he had it bad when he found himself dialling Rob Monday afternoon and found a reason to mention that Gary was kind enough to be driving him while his car was broken.

“What, Gary Barlow? That bloke you swooned over as a tadpole? Really?”

“I didn’t swoon and me, a tadpole? I’m older’n you are.”

Although he had to admit, Rob wasn’t that far from the truth. He had had a bit of a thing for him when they were younger. As someone who aspired to be a musician, he’d fallen in love with his voice first, of course, but he was gorgeous too, even if Gary himself didn’t seem to think so. Not that he was going to tell Rob that, or mention how many times he’d thought of the word gorgeous and cherubic back in those days, or how they were making it into his mental vocabulary again.

“He always came off a bit light in the loafers to me, y’know. Bit of a dork, too, least that’s how I pictured him. You should probably put his knob on your gob and find out if I’m right.”

And when he spent two hours of the afternoon in the library online, headphones on and watching old music videos on youtube and searching Google for evidence that Gary Barlow was gay (and the disappointment that crushed his chest to find that he’d dated a girl in the nineties and ‘was currently’ dating another in 2006 in one of those Where Are They Now? articles he normally avoided, seeing as he always feared seeing his own face in them) he worried maybe he was being a bit weird.

Telling himself that he’d dated and had sex with more women than Gary likely had as comfort made him feel like a prat, but Gary just _seemed_ to be at least bisexual. Even if he’d simply recognised him, Gary’s eyes followed him more than they should’ve, and he had caught him looking away quickly and blushing, and he had leaned into every touch on his knee that he’d intentionally given him.

But what? Was he supposed to flinch and jerk away like a bigot?

After lunch on Tuesday, he figured there was no harm in texting in a subtly flirty manner (all right, maybe not too subtle) and if Gary seemed uncomfortable with being called cute, he’d know.

_oh rubbish i looked like timmy mallet !_

All right, so he wasn’t uncomfortable, but he wasn’t flirting back.

But he did spend the rest of the day texting him, and that had to be a sign in his favour, right?

“I told you, knob on the gob, only way to tell for sure,” was Rob’s only suggestion.

He decided to stop asking for advice after that.

* * *

Taking Mark to and from work every day, except for Mondays and Tuesdays, quickly became something Gary looked forward to. He was quiet in the mornings on the way to work, eyes closed and head rested against the seat, but in the evening, as Gary took him home, he was different.

They started talking about music exclusively. They didn’t stray from the subject of lyrics, bridges, and swelling strings, voices getting louder and quicker from excitement when they slid to a stop at the curb of Mark’s flat. At first Gary left the car running because they only talked for about a minute before he left; two weeks later, at the end of May, Gary had started turning off the engine and leaving the music on to discuss what they were listening to long after he’d parked by the curb.

It wasn’t much later after that they started talking about things other than music; Mark’s friend, Rob (well, Robbie Williams) and his family (his wife Ayda and a baby; Mark had yet to specify her age, but her name was Teddy); Mark’s brother and sister and parents; Gary talked a little about Ian and his mum, as his dad had died a few years ago. They shared a few embarrassing stories growing up, both of them laughing so hard they could hardly speak, tears streaming down their faces and sides splitting.

There was one occasion, in mid-June, when rain had come pouring down, beating heavily against the grounds and car while they practically hydroplaned down the streets to his flat (of which Gary was secretly thankful; they’d been having a ridiculous heat wave that left him sweaty and miserable) when instead of talking, they sat in comfortable silence, watching the water-filtered world through the windscreen. Gary had the passing thought of it being them vs. the world, real blokes parked by a curb, taking on a warped populace. It sounded ridiculous, but he couldn‘t help how he felt. When the silence ended a few minutes later, with Mark’s soft goodbye and a hand on his knee, it occurred to him that one day, Mark’s car would be fixed, and these little trips would end. He went home and uploaded all of Mark’s CDs on his iTunes after that.

They texted each other. Often. Some days, he wondered why they didn’t simply talk on the phone for a few hours; maybe that was because they’d eventually have to say goodbye. They never did say goodbye over the texts; they only picked up where they left off the next time they did, be it a few hours, or a few days, later. Mark had a habit of taking pictures of random objects or places and sending them to him; there was a picture of shoes that he’d, for whatever reason, snapped, but also a picture of the sun setting between two buildings. Gary tried to do the same, but he really only ever thought to take pictures of his impressive mug collection, and Mark insisted it was endearing though Gary was a bit sheepish about the fact he had so many.

On the first of July, Mark suggested, on a swelteringly hot day where they stayed in the car talking with the air conditioning blasting, that they catch a film on his day off work. Two days later, Gary saw Mark for the first time in something other than his uniform (a large-brimmed hat, low-riding trousers with a low-cut flowery shirt; if he hadn’t known better, he would’ve wondered if he were borrowing his girlfriend’s clothes). “Bit hot for a scarf, yeah?” It was purple, and it shouldn’t have matched with the shirt and yet it looked great. Gary couldn’t have ever pulled that off; then again, he was wearing a grey, thin hoody and jeans, so what did he know about fashion?

“I actually haven’t seen the new _Star Trek_ yet,” Mark had suggested, fingers trailing across the bottom of the frame for the poster. “But I’ve heard _This Is The End_ is funny.”

“Why not both, then?”

After some persuasion, Mark let Gary pay for the tickets for _Star Trek,_ though he insisted on paying for his own for _This Is The End._ Gary had seen _Star Trek_ already, but it was different seeing it with someone sat by his elbow, sharing popcorn. It meant more than it should’ve that Mark enjoyed the film with him, gasped at all the right parts and thoroughly lost himself in it; perhaps Gary had been alone too long, but the idea of sharing that with someone, the enjoyment of _Star Trek,_ as dorky as it was, had him grinning more than he had the first time he’d seen it.

They had a ten minute break between _Star Trek_ and _This Is The End,_ and it was impossible not to compare it to _Wrath of Khan,_ so they did (Mark just as excitedly as Gary). “I was a bit curious about Spock and Kirk’s friendship, y’know what I mean?”

Gary smiled. “Everyone knows they’re really in love, Mark. Watch the originals sometime, you’ll know what I’m sayin’.” 

“We should marathon it sometime.”

“Would take days.”

“Best kind of marathon, if you ask me.” Mark elbowed him gently with a grin.

As the lights dimmed to ready them for the trailers, Gary whispered; “I’ll hold you to that,” in a lower tone of voice than was necessary, and it didn’t occur to him until after he’d broken the lingering eye contact with a smile that he’d been flirting. 

_This Is The End_ really had been enjoyable, and hilarious, until the Backstreet Boys showed up on screen, singing one of their old songs. It wouldn’t have been awkward if the woman in front of them hadn’t said; “God, they look so old,” to her friend in hushed tones, just loud enough for them to hear.

“Well of course they do, I’m sure all the boybands do; New Kids, Take That. Bit sad; you just want them to stay the same forever, don’t you?”

Unless they had eyes in the back of their heads, they couldn’t see them, but Mark still slid down in his seat a bit.

After it ended, Mark jerked his head to the wall right outside the exit, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He’d stood against the wall and Gary went beside him, shoulder to shoulder. With the cigarette still between his lips and the pack put away, the two women who’d sat in front of them exited the cinema, saying; “He was always my favourite; he was so cute! Too bad he’s gay, huh?”

Mark’s eyes had widened in fear.

Gary casually turned so that he stood in front of him, elbow leant against the wall above Mark’s head, faces inches from each other. It was a pretty obvious shielding technique, almost as bad as holding a menu in front of his face in a restaurant.

They’d been talking about Lance Bass so it hadn’t mattered, but Mark whispered his thanks anyway, and when Gary had stopped shielding him and leant against the wall, staring at the car park, he’d still felt Mark’s hand at his hip and could visualise his lips puckered around the fag.

Despite their growing friendship, he didn’t change his routine, nor did he ask to be seated elsewhere. Even though Sandy now knew who he was, she didn’t treat him any differently than she always had, for which he was grateful. He still sat in his table, and waved at Mark when they locked eyes every Wednesday and Friday.

It was the second Thursday of July that Mark told him, after listening to a Chopin piece with his eyes closed and soft smile painted on his face, that he said; “I’ll be gettin’ me car back on Monday.”

“Oh good, good,” he said, though it wasn’t what he felt at all.

“Yeah.” 

Mark sounded equally enthusiastic.

* * *

With the exception of his co-workers, Mark hadn’t met anyone since he’d moved to Manchester; it had been longer since he’d made any friends, and longer still that he’d had a prospect for a relationship. Of course there were nights when he’d feel especially maudlin and go someplace, drink a bit, and pick up someone for the night, but he hadn’t done that since London.

“Probably the worst thing I ever picked up, this habit,” he’d said this morning and crushed the fag beneath his heel as Gary pulled to the curb. It was simply small talk. Forced small talk, actually, because it was the last day they’d be doing this.

“I hear you. Well, I can’t say I was addicted. Was more of a situational habit, to be honest.” 

“I can get that way with alcohol,” Mark had replied, shutting the door and buckling his belt. “If I get a bit down, y’know.”

The rest of the ride had been quiet. 

Mark was kicking himself because it was lunch break, and he stood, as ever, by the rubbish bins, half-smoked cigarette in hand. He hadn’t asked Gaz out like he’d intended, and he was smoking his last cigarette and since he’d left his new pack on his dresser he’d have to ask Carlo for one if he needed to smoke another and feel even more like a failure. “Tryin’ to quit,” he’d said to the cashier for the pack he’d just finished, like he had the time before that, and the time before that. He couldn’t quit smoking and he couldn’t even ask a man out on a date, simple as that was, or go to work without the fear of sniggers and pitying looks, imagined or not.

He’d just have to do it tonight, then, on the way home.

He felt like a former smoker and a musician and the kind of man who wasn’t afraid to make the first move, but feeling like something wasn’t the same as being something. He might not be doing too well with the smoking and god knew how he was doing with the musician bit, but making the first move he could handle. He was _sure_ that there was a spark; he’d prodded and flirted and moved too close and touched too much, and Gary hadn’t pulled away or reacted negatively once. Even if he was wrong, he didn’t seem like the type to react violently or with disgust, so their friendship wouldn’t be in too much danger. If for some reason Gary didn’t want anything to do with him after, he had a great excuse to stop talking with him anyway.

Mark didn’t want to stop talking with him, though.

He tossed his fag and ground it into the asphalt with his shoe before stuffing his hands in his pockets and went to the break room.

Sandy had her iPod playing, though she hadn’t plugged it into any speakers so the sound wasn’t clear. It was something instrumental, likely a movie soundtrack, and she scribbled something on the back of a receipt with a bright blue pen. 

Jeannie poured coffee and offered him a tired smile. “Have a nice smoke break?” She stirred sugar into her mug as she spoke.

He shrugged. “Well, nice as ever I suppose. Really, though, I wish I could quit.”

She smiled and nodded before taking a sip.

He sat beside Sandy and Jeannie sat across him. The silence normally didn’t aggravate him much, but today it burrowed under his skin and even the music, which was lovely, filled him with anxiety. “Seem a bit tense,” Jeannie stated with an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, guess I am.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s . . . dumb, really.” She raised both her eyebrows this time and casually sipped her coffee; a bit too casually. “It’s just--well, I’m getting me car back tomorrow.”

“Oh I didn’t know it was broken.”

“It’s all right. Gary, he’s been driving me to and from work, so.”

Jeannie’s mug clinked the table top and she narrowed her eyes. “Has he said somethin’ to you that’s . . . ? He’s not bein’ a cock, is he?”

“Oh no, no, far from it, he’s a sweetheart really, I just . . . I was only thinkin’ about askin’ him on a date is all, got me nerves up a bit.”

Jeannie’s lips pursed with a barely audible; “Hmm,” and Sandy stopped writing on the receipt. After a second, she placed the pen down and Mark regretted opening his mouth. He knew Sandy fancied Gary, everyone did; of course, she’d always get insistent on refusing to ask him for his number or anything like that and if he liked Gary too, he had every right to ask. He hated hurting anyone’s feelings, but if she wouldn’t make a move, then it wasn’t wrong of him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jeannie finally said, lips still puckered. Her eyes zeroed in on the table, arms folded against her chest.

A few things zipped across his mind; something about it not being her business and that he didn’t need her permission. Of course he’d never say any of it because that would be incredibly rude. Instead he just smiled and shrugged, opting to remain silent and wish that they hadn’t run out of tea this morning.

After a long, awkward silence, Jeannie grabbed her mug and left the room, though she lingered by the door for a minute. Mark assumed she was waiting for a rebuke, though she made a show of checking her arse-length braid in the mirror by the door. It wasn’t his place to tell her off, and the last thing he wanted to do was create tension between them. She had, after all, been the one to offer him a job.

“Sorry if me asking him out bugs you.”

Sandy smiled at him, brunette hair framing her face. “Oh it’s fine, really.” It _sounded_ believable, and maybe she was being honest, but he didn’t know if he believed her anyway. Still he hoped that, being in her thirties, she’d be mature enough for it not to interfere with their work relationship.

She returned to writing on the receipt a moment later. He glanced at it; saw enough of it to figure it was a poem. He knew personally how awkward it could be to have someone look over his shoulder while writing or go over an unfinished piece, and he didn’t have a close enough friendship with Sandy to warrant asking to read something as personal as a poem, so he found something else to focus on.

When her alarm went off, she tucked the receipt into her pocket and pulled her hair into a practised ponytail. She was almost out of the door when she stopped and looked at him. “Do you ever feel like you’ve been smacked into the wrong life?”

He looked at the floor. “All the time.”

* * *

As soon as Mark’s shift ended he was off the clock and on his way out the door; not that he was ever late leaving, but he made sure to have everything finished and ready beforehand. Jeannie and Sandy were getting off shift also, and Sandy had her earbuds in while she bopped her head, too invested in her music to notice him, and Jeannie looked as if she were going to approach him but Mark acted as if he didn’t notice her and sped up, mostly because he worried that she would reiterate her advice from lunch.

Gary, as ever, was already parked and waiting. When Mark slid into the passenger seat he expected music, but it was silent this time. “Forgot the iPod,” Gary explained as he rearranged the rear-view mirror.

Mark sweated more than most people. It was something he’d struggled with on stage and had become a bit of a joke, not that he’d minded because they’d meant it affectionately. He’d been far more embarrassed over it in school, but now the old feeling of awkwardness returned. Was he really about to ask Gary out on a date after a long day at work, sweating like a pig? Of course, every other time he’d been in the car he’d been just as sweaty, but instead of making him feel better that made him feel worse; Gary always saw him looking like crap, and probably smelling that way too.

Now he was being far too quiet and it was starting to stretch into uncomfortable silence.

“Jeannie doesn’t seem to like you very much,” he blurted, although he’d noticed it awhile ago and had always wondered if there was a story. He only now asked because he thought of her disapproval, and was half biding time and half perhaps segueing into actually asking Gary.

“Yeah. Dunno why, though, to be honest. Maybe I said somethin’ once thinkin’ I was funny and was actually being rude. Or she doesn’t like my music, thinks I’m a spoiled former pop star, you never know. Don’t think much on it.”

Mark had encountered a few people, though usually male, who felt similarly about him; that he was simply an arrogant former pop star milking fame he no longer had. Mostly they came from his hometown.

He waited for Gary to ask why he’d brought up Jeannie so that he could say she wasn’t keen on him asking Gary out, though he wondered if that was a weak, silly way of asking someone out. Gary, however, flicked on the blinker before taking a turn.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” Gary said a few seconds later, while he steered one-handed to rub above his eyebrow, his large palm effectively blocking his face from Mark’s view. 

Heart in his throat, Mark asked; “What’s that?”

“I found your CDs lounging in me house the other day, so I put ‘em on my iTunes. Haven’t been able to stop listening since, was a bit embarrassed ‘cause a song made it to my top listened tracks.” He cleared his throat and shifted, placing his hand on the wheel again, both hands white-knuckled now.

Mark smiled. “That’s really sweet, dunno why you’d be embarrassed really. I’m flattered.”

Gary smiled at him. “Well, I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m a fame chaser or anything, some kind of groupie.”

“Oh right. What was it you said? You both loved me a bit more than you loved each other?” Gary had never said that he’d been dating a woman, specifically (though he hadn’t said man, either) although that wasn’t why he remembered the sentence; he’d never forget someone actually admiring his music.

Gary’s chuckle was reedy and completely awkward. It was adorable.

Mark patted him on the thigh, hoping to let him know it was nothing to be embarrassed about, and honestly, he’d touched Gary’s knee so many times by now that it was nearly habit.

“Was always surprised she left the CDs, but she never came by to pick ‘em up; never came back for her old laptop, either. I figure was too painful; she’d left her Billy Joel CDs, too. We listened to them a tonne, drinkin’ wine in bed and all. Maybe the music wasn’t worth the memories.”

Oh. He’d dated a woman, then.

That didn’t mean that Gary wasn’t interested, though. Mark had had sex with more women than he could possibly count in the nineties. Gary had been a pop star too, even if not at the level they’d been as a band; perhaps the same rules had applied to him.

“Memories too painful when you two ended it then?”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.” Gary rubbed his eyebrow and shifted in his seat; must’ve been another one of those long stories he’d accumulated.

“Got a few of those meself, too.” They stopped at a light and Gary looked at him with expectant wide eyes. “There was this one guy, we’d been together for four years, and uh, well. I’m not a joy to be around, y’know, I’m hard to live with sometimes. Guess after awhile he just . . . I don’t know. We hated each other, in the end. I let it go on longer than I should’ve; I always let it go on longer than it should.”

“Nothin’ wrong with holding out, you know.”

“It is when you spend the last year seething at each other. He left me. I couldn’t ever leave him; I just hate hurting people, y’know? You can’t leave someone without hurting them.”

“Sometimes sticking ‘round hurts ‘em more, though. Course, I’m not one to talk. She left me. I couldn’t bring myself to end it, either, though I can’t say I really wanted to stick it out.”

Mark thought about his ex, and having kids, and how being in his forties without any left a chasm in his chest that he worried he’d never be able to fill; something that he’d always thought he would get later, just after this album, just after this rut in the road, soon enough, not right now. Of course, now he could hardly afford to take care of himself, he couldn’t afford to take care of a child. It looked more and more likely that he’d never have any kids at all; he’d accepted that he’d likely never have his own, but the idea of not having any was still tough for him to swallow.

“You know I’ve always wanted to be a dad,” he found himself blurting, staring out of the window and failing to push away the hurt in his chest and stomach at the thought. “I always knew, just _knew,_ that I wanted children. One of my biggest dreams, y’know? Now I . . . well, doesn’t seem that way, does it? I can dream about it all I want, dream about holding a baby in my arms, takin’ me son camping, and it’ll never be true.”

“Well now don’t say that. Elton adopted just recently, you know, and he’s much older than we are. If you want to be a dad someday, you’ll be a dad.”

Mark pinched his lips together, but the hurt in his chest wasn’t subsiding, so he didn’t want to continue the subject. “Elton huh? You must really like him.”

“You know I do. You wanted to be a dad, I wanted to be Elton.”

Of course, the unsaid sentence hung thick in the air like nicotine-tinged smoke, pungent and grey and dismal. _Looks like neither of us got what we wanted._

Having a depressing conversation right before he gathered the courage to ask him out wasn’t exactly on his itinerary, so he reached out for the first topic change that popped in his mind.

“Y’know, I liked goin’ to the theatre with you.” His mind wasn’t on the movies they’d seen but instead how Gary had shielded him from the two women who would’ve definitely recognised him; inches from his body, his soft, light eyes and lips less than a foot away from his, and how he’d had a dream or two that were vaguely similar but with some differences; more giggles and alleyways and hot mouths and fumbling hands, less staring and anti-climactically pulling away. Younger and still relevant and both of them mattering, of course, but that’s what dreams were for; fantasies. 

“Loved the movies, fantastic. You know, that was the second time I’d seen _Star Trek;_ great that time around, too.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d seen it before; if I’d known that I wouldn’t’ve asked--”

“Exactly, and I wanted to. Don’t you just love _Star Trek?_ Oh, right, and we’ve got that marathon to do one of these days, if you were still interested of course.” Gary’s whole face lit up, mouth stretching into a smile and looking away from the road just long enough to lock eyes.

“I’d love to.” 

Gary happily focused on the road again. “Good.” 

“I‘m glad you think that Spock and Kirk had a thing, too, really. Always worried I only saw it ‘cause I’m gay.”

“Of course they do. You know that Vulcans kiss by putting their hands together? Same as you an’ me kissing through a window then, isn’t it?”

“I did know that, actually.” Thoughts of Gary kissing him goodbye through a car window flashed through his mind, but he pushed that aside to grin at Gary’s surprised expression. “Not my first rodeo, Gaz. Well, marathon.”

Luckily, the rest of the drive, though not long, was much more pleasant than the first half, and far too soon Gary pulled up beside the curb, finishing up a brief analysis of a scene in an episode proving Spock and Kirk were, in fact, in love. Mark dragged it out, but not for long, because it really had been a good place to end the talk. He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t sit here forever.

“Hey, Gaz?” he began tentatively instead of opening the car door.

“Hmm?”

“I actually have a little confession to make too.” Gary nodded, urging him on, and Mark bit on his bottom lip slightly. “The thing is, your first night back from vacation, y’know, when I went to serve you; first time we met, remember?” Gary made a noise of assent. Mark rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his chin. “I knew that wasn’t my area.”

Gary furrowed his brows. “Wait, you knew you weren’t supposed to . . . be my server?” Mark nodded. “Why’d you do that, then?”

His clueless expression was endearing and yet it confused Mark because did he seriously not get it? “I wanted to talk to you is all.”

“Why? ‘Cause I looked familiar or . . . ?”

He either really didn’t get it, or he didn’t _want_ to get it . . . or he didn’t want to hope that he _was_ getting it, if he was anything like Mark. “Well that was a part of it, yeah, but . . . mostly it was ‘cause you’re gorgeous.”

Mark looked at Gary through his lowered lids and bit on his lip. He put his hand on Gary’s knee and one of Gary’s eyebrows quirked upward. The; “Oh,” that left his lips was small and quiet but Mark heard it just fine in the silence of the car; the silence that started to turn to heartbeats in his ears.

“Was gonna chat you up a bit, ask your number, but didn’t quite work out that way, did it?” He squeezed his knee and Gary licked his bottom lip before pinching them together, but not in an angry, pursed way; as if he were trying to stop himself from speaking. “So I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me sometime?” Mark smiled at him and tilted his head.

Gary’s adam’s apple bobbed and he licked his bottom lip again. He opened his mouth but paused, pinched his lips together again. “I’m flattered,” he began slowly, and Mark felt his high spirits crash immediately, “but I’m not, er, well. I’m straight.”

“Oh. Well. Sorry, I didn’t--it was a mistake, I’m very sorry.” He cleared his throat and pulled away, cheeks burning and a thousand different ways to apologise spinning in his head. “I’ll er, I’ll just go then, I’m sorry. I’ll, er, yes. Goodnight, Gary.”

He fumbled for the doorknob and yanked on it when he found it.

“Wait, wait, now hold on.” Gary’s hand was on his arm; tight, but not painfully so. Mark could pull free if he wanted, but he stopped. “I’m not upset, Mark.”

Mark slowly turned in his seat to face him. Gary let go of his arm when he caught his eyes. His brows were furrowed and head tilted; he looked concerned. Mark swallowed a lump in his throat and looked at the dashboard instead. “The last time I er, was mistaken, I ended up with quite a nice shiner.”

“What?”

Mark nodded, still focusing intently on the dashboard. The lump in his throat swelled. “He was a friend, well. I thought. Got me fired, actually.” He dragged his eyes from the dashboard to properly meet Gary’s, as difficult as that seemed to be. “We worked together. We spent loads of time together. I asked him out, and he hit me. Of course, bein’ the manager’s son, wasn’t him who got in trouble. Said I was harassing him.”

“Fuck him, then.” Mark couldn’t quite bring himself to smile, but it did lessen the awkwardness a bit. “Look, if it’s all right with you, I’d still love to get together sometime, as friends.”

Well, that made the situation much less awkward and he did feel better, although his cheeks still burned. That being said, though, he nodded because he hadn’t made a real friend in a long while, and he wasn’t about to let go of that over an embarrassing moment, if he was still willing.

“Of course it’s all right with me.”

“Good. Now don’t go and forget about me now that you don’t need rides, all right? I still expect texts, you know.”

This time, he really did smile.


	5. And My Applause

Gary didn’t know if he was mentally patting himself on the back or smacking himself in the face. Well he knew which one he should’ve felt, but he was fervently feeling the other; wanting more than anything to go back in time and try again, even though he’d done the right thing; what he’d had to do. 

One minute they were discussing Spock and Kirk and how obviously in love they were, and the next Mark’s hand was on his knee with lowered, batting lashes and his voice deeper, impossibly deep, and asking him on a date. In his mind, Gary chanted, shouted, _yes._

_Yes._

As difficult as it was to turn down, he did, and he should congratulate himself. Yet he internally berated himself, shook his head, and pursed his lips the whole way home, angrily honking at someone who hadn’t done too much wrong but he needed to get the frustration out somehow, so the little old lady who was perhaps a bit too cautious a driver would just have to move on from his road rage.

When he made it home, he simultaneously wanted to phone Mark to tell him he was lying, that yes, he would accept the date, and to tell him that they couldn’t be friends anymore because honestly, seeing him at all in a friend sense, would only make him want to touch his face even more; feel his lips against his own, smooth and tinged with cigarettes and small hands against his chest and back, and fuck anyone who had problems with that.

But life wasn’t that simple. Not even for Mark, who had been assaulted over asking a friend of his on a date, and obviously that hadn’t been too long ago. It was 2013, and people still reacted that way? Mark’s orientation has stunted his records sales; plummeted them, even, and he hadn’t ever made it back from that. Even his latest album, years after the millennium, hadn’t done well, and there was no reason for it not to have made it on the charts. 

What about Mum? Ian? What then, if they found out, if they knew?

Beyond that, beyond societal pressures and familial issues, on a personal level, he knew why he couldn’t ever go there. Gary couldn’t handle the depression of breaking up with a boyfriend the way he could a girlfriend and Mark would, eventually, leave him. What was Gary compared to Mark? Nothing.

The idea of losing Mark, not speaking to him again, burrowed deep into his chest and tried to claw everything out, and it shouldn’t pain him that much; the idea of cutting ties with someone he’d first seen in April, and had only had any sort of actual relationship with since May, shouldn’t hurt as much as it did.

But, he realised as he caught himself opening the fridge although he wasn’t hungry, it would, because other than his family, who _else_ did he have? Servers at a diner who only knew him through small talk and regular commenters on his music blog didn’t count. He didn’t _have_ friends.

He hadn’t needed anyone, he’d thought. He might not have been happy, but he’d been content. Or at least that was what he told himself, but oh, how having actual interaction had reminded him just why it was so important. Talking about something other than the pleasantries all servers were paid to say, and ignoring the thinly veiled concern in his mother’s or Ian’s voice every time they talked, was more than appreciated; it was invigorating. He hadn’t felt judged or like an outsider, or ineffectual, but truly, honestly appreciated, and he had, in turn, done appreciating of his own. That was hard to let go of and he didn’t want to, even if he knew he _should._

It wasn’t his first time doing this dance, though. It wasn’t, and maybe he could . . . .

No.

Not again, and even still, he was lucky before, to have gone as long as he did. Not so lucky was the aftermath, and that, _that,_ was why he couldn’t do this. Losing himself once again in reclusive depression and sinking lower and lower into self-hate? It had taken years to get away from that--and to be honest he still wasn’t completely out. And if he tortured himself by putting himself near Mark on a regular basis (and it would be torture; he didn’t know if he could be happy with just friendship forever) it would end disastrously. Perhaps even worse than before.

It was stupid, really. They didn’t know each other that much, and yet he still felt as if Mark could utterly destroy him. Being filled with such energy and life, and joy, more than he’d felt in thirteen years, was dangerous. He’d known Mark was dangerous the second he laid eyes on him; he could make him feel things he hadn’t in years; even more worrying, he made him want to react to those feelings.

The microwave pinged and his steaming microwaveable burrito looked inviting against the black plate he’d placed it on and the documentary he’d switched the channel to seemed interesting enough to distract him.

It didn’t, though.

He could be friends with Mark, couldn’t he? Even if it meant spending the entirety of their friendship, as long as it was, wanting (and knowing he could have) more, but knowing he couldn’t allow it?

If the alternative was losing the one friend he’d had, the one person he could talk with, in years, could he do it?

Neither the documentary or the burrito held an answer, and dreaming of Mark’s voice on the other end of a phone when he finally fell asleep that night didn’t help, either.

* * *

Mark wasn’t one to use his mobile, or any phone, much. Gary had been an anomaly, really, but maybe it was because he hadn’t ever had too many people he needed to communicate with via phone, because they had spent a lot of time texting each other.

They had been, anyway.

Even with Gary’s parting statement that he wanted to be friends Mark still felt too awkward to continue. What if he’d only said that to be polite? Mark didn’t want to be a bother. Seeing as Gary didn’t text or ring him on either of his two days off, he felt comfortable in assuming that he didn’t mean what he’d said anyway.

Driving to work Wednesday morning didn’t feel right and he missed Gary, and he hated telling Jeannie that him asking Gary out hadn’t gone as he’d hoped, because even if she acted sympathetic he doubted she really gave a shit. Sandy had Wednesdays off, but he would’ve rather told her than Jeannie, because at least he knew Sandy liked Gary. Jeannie actually tried to be friendly, though, which he couldn’t have said about Carlo (who only knew because he overheard).

“You wouldn’t have liked him anyway,” he’d said, pursing his lip and shaking his head. “His girlfriend, back when he _had_ one, but that was when I first started working here, was a right stunner; dunno why he chucked her, fuckin’ moron if you ask me.”

Mark hadn’t known what to say so he just smiled wanly. The last thing he needed was to hear about Gary’s girlfriend, and why he thought talking badly about Gary would help him he didn’t know, but he wasn’t the only one.

“When I was still a waiter, I’d been working here for about six months when he showed up, and if you think he’s fat now--”

“I don’t,” Mark had interjected, but John either hadn’t heard him or had ignored him because he kept talking.

“--he was _huge_ then, I’d say about sixteen stone, and this girl I worked with, she said it was such a shame because he hadn’t always been. Anyway he’d had this really good looking roommate that she’d fancied, I never saw him so maybe she was lying--she was a lying slag, really, half the shit she said was lies--but Gary was always rude to her, that’s what she told me, so she said well good for him, fat bastard deserved to look like shit, that’s what she said. Of course I don’t know what to believe because half the shit that came out her mouth was crap and all, caught her blowin’ coke you know. That’s how I became manager; someone had to step up after she was fired.”

Mark had never been more glad to be too busy to sit and chat with John in his life, because they’d all heard enough about the coke blowing slag he’d caught and reported like the hero he imagined himself to be more than enough times, and what did it matter how much Gary weighed then, or now, even?

He hadn’t wanted anybody to really know about his failed attempt, but because of Carlo everybody knew. They were giving him looks every time they passed him, or patting his shoulder comfortingly. They were making it out to be a much bigger deal than it was, really.

Or so Mark thought, until he caught himself looking up at the door every time he heard it open and it wasn’t Gary who walked through. He had expected Gary to be bothered and had worried this would happen, but he had hoped it wouldn’t. Yet Gary never showed.

Mark tried to ring Rob as soon as his lunch break started, but it went to voicemail, so instead he sat at the table and debated on texting Gary something that he hoped wouldn’t come off as needy, but couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t completely obvious, and dammit, he was forty-one, he was too old to be reacting this way, especially over someone he hardly knew.

That wasn’t true though.

With the exception of Rob and his family, Gary was the first friend he’d made in a long while. He’d had friends in London, in his last place of employment, but they were work friends; the same as the ‘friends’ he made working as a waiter here.

“Heard the bad news, but chin up mate,” announced the waiter whose name Mark could never remember, because he only ever saw him in the break room and they were supposed to take their name badges off during break. He plopped in a chair at the table across from Mark, and immediately started texting someone. “It ain’t all bad news. Least he just wasn’t into your gender, you know? It would’ve been well bad if he’d been gay and still said no, catch me? I’m bi, you know, and that shit’s happened to me like ten times, swear to God.”

Mark was impressed. That was better than what anyone else had said to him so far.

“Been turned down myself plenty times, y’know? Guys and girls. I almost asked Sandy out once even, and Jeannie was all supporting’ of it an’ all, but I got too nervous and chickened out. Good thing though ‘cause who knows who’d I be dating now, and my girlfriend is well cool.” He gestured at his phone before he continue texting, smiling at the screen. “But I gotta say I was surprised, ‘cause no offence or anything but I figured you’d have known he was gay or whatever years ago, being in a band together and whatnot.”

Mark furrowed his brows and went to correct him, but Jeannie walked in. “Morning,” she greeted with hardly a glance in their direction, heading straight for the coffee machine. 

“Gaz and I weren’t in a band together.” The clanging of coffee cups prevented the silence from getting too awkward, so there was that.

“Mate weren’t you two in that Take That band? I was really into them when I was teenager but that was so long ago. You was my favourite, actually. Ain’t that what you knew him from or some shit? And you was rubbin’ each other with jelly and all?”

“What? Er, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I was in Take That. Gary was a solo artist and er . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about with the jelly.”

He stared at Mark with eyes narrowed, as if not sure he believed him or not. Finally his face lit up with realisation and he shook his head and went back to texting. “Oh, my bad. Y’know I was thinkin’ of that Cherry Pie song. By Warrant, but there’s no jelly in that, just pie. You know the one, goes; ‘Cherry pie, not as cute as her,’ or somethin’.”

“It’s; ‘She’s my cherry pie, taste so good make a grown man cry,’” Jeannie answered tersely, looking over her shoulder at them. “And you’re not due for lunch break for twenty minutes. You know better than that.”

Sighing, he pulled himself out of his chair and stuffed his phone in his pocket, rolling his eyes, before heading out of the break room. He mumbled something and it didn’t sound very pleasant, but Mark couldn’t hear what he said. Even if he was in his thirties, Carlo was ten years younger than him and acted more mature.

It was silent while Jeannie poured her coffee, but when she sat across from Mark he could tell by the expression on her face she wanted to have a conversation with him.

Luckily for him, his mobile rang before she could talk.

“Hey, Rob,” he greeted, standing from his chair and heading towards the door that led outside.

“Remember back when each phone call was a gamble of chance? Bloody hated that, couldn’t know if it were your best mate or some prat you hated on the other end.” The door shut behind Mark and he was glad to have some fresh air. “So how’s good ol’ Gaz in bed, then?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you, but you’ve been busy.”

“Touring’s such a bitch, innit? To be honest, I dunno how much longer I can pull it off. My muscles are killing me, and to top it off I stretched meself real bad right _here_ and it’s total shit. Well you can’t see but I’m pointin’ at my crotch right now. Guess you’re getting all the sex I can’t have right about now then eh?”

Mark laughed as he leant against the wall beside the rubbish bins, looking at the car park and telling himself he wasn’t hoping he’d see Gary pulling in. “No, I’m not. He said no.”

“What? To my li’l buddy? You know this means I have to kill him.”

“He’s straight, Rob.”

He waited for the glib half-apologetic remark.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” was all Rob said, and he actually sounded like he meant it.

Mark genuinely smiled. Even if Rob was crass and it was hard for him to take anything serious, he really did care.

* * *

Mark talked with Rob for the rest of his lunch break and it made him feel better; he explained that Gary said he still wanted to be friends but he hadn’t shown up yet although he always showed up on Wednesdays, and how he completely understood why he would feel awkward being around him, but it still hurt. Rob didn’t scoff at him or try to turn Gary into a villain; he listened and joked but took everything he said at face value; didn’t belittle him or the situation, and just in general acted the way Mark had expected him to, and in that familiarity was comfort.

By the end of his lunch he was laughing so hard he regretted having to end the call and go to work.

Being as it was busy, he didn’t have a moment’s rest when he started working again, and although he enjoyed the amount of tips he was getting, his feet were killing him and he still had an hour to go. His feet always hurt at the end of a shift, more than they should’ve to be honest, but today was worse than usual because of how busy it was. He’d been thinking about buying new shoes, but then his car broke down and he’d had to save up as much money as possible for that instead. Maybe on his next day off he’d see if he could afford shoe shopping.

There he was.

Mark blinked, because he wasn’t sitting at his regular table. It already had three people sitting there, but the two tables beside it were empty and he had, on occasion, been seated elsewhere, just always in Sandy’s section (or Carlo’s, when she had the day off). But he sat in Mark’s, at a booth by a window, fingers tapping restlessly.

So he hadn’t been bothered by his attraction. He _did_ mean it when he said he wanted to remain friends.

A weight he hadn’t noticed lifted from his shoulders and something loosened in his chest. Grinning, he went over to the booth. “What’re you doin’ here so late?”

Gary turned away from the window and smiled at him. “It’s been so busy all day, figured I’d come now. And seeing as Sandy wasn’t here, I asked if I could have you as me server instead. That all right?”

“Oh it’s great, really. Just surprised is all.” He pulled up his pad and smiled. “So what can I get for you today?”

* * *

There were some days where Gary truly hated himself.

Not disliked, not irritated by, but hated.

It was hard for Gary to find much good in himself most days; it wasn’t a full-blown hatred, but it was a feeling of worthlessness that came with being utterly ineffectual. He had done nothing with his life and he looked like crap, so to say he liked himself at all was a bit of a stretch, but _hate?_ Some days it was too easy to slip back into the pit; he’d actually forgotten that he was crap while he was with Mark, and that was why he knew how dangerous he was.

Cutting him out of his life, however, or at least contemplating it, had only made him feel worse.

Feeling good about himself was so foreign a feeling he hadn’t recognised it, until he told himself he couldn’t talk to Mark anymore. It was easy, seeing as Mark hadn’t texted or called him, and then he found himself avoiding reflective surfaces; feeling a pit in his stomach, and how small his moderately sized house was, how close the walls were, and how he’d eaten a pack of microwaveable burritos in one day.

A man he’d known for months shouldn’t have this effect on him, and yet he did. That was _why_ he had to keep away.

And yet, he couldn’t help but think of Mark, habitually looking over at his table to meet his eyes and seeing someone else instead, and it wasn’t fair to punish him because Gary was being a moron. It wasn’t Mark’s fault that he couldn’t handle his feelings, that his fear was as crippling as it was, or that he had carefully cultivated himself a life so cut off from everyone that driving a former boyband member to and from work was the first legitimate relationship he’d formed in years. It wouldn’t be fair to hurt Mark because Gary was scared of hurting himself, especially when Mark had done nothing but make him feel better about his music, the world, _himself._

Maybe it made him weak, but he had hurried to the diner after spending most of the day refusing, and asked to be seated in Mark’s area, since Sandy wasn’t there and he doubted Carlo would be offended. Although, thinking on it, Carlo had been glaring at him the moment he sat foot in the diner so perhaps he wouldn’t have wanted to sit there anyway.

Mark grinned at him, took his order and gave it to him, same as any other waiter would’ve done, except his eyes sparkled when he smiled and he had something more to say other than small talk; how he’d talked to Rob on the phone today during lunch and that one of his co-workers had thought Gary had been in Take That with him and written Cherry Pie by Warrant. He’d laughed embarrassingly loud over that, despite how self-conscious he was about his laugh, but Mark’s surprisingly deep laughter covered his, as he leaned back a bit with his arm over his stomach.

The fact he was going to throw this away because he was enjoying himself was idiotic. Then again, nobody had ever accused Gary of being a genius.

Well, not since the nineties, anyway.

His meal came later than he thought it would so he ate quickly, then ended up finishing before Mark’s shift. So he wasted time staring out of the window, tapping his fingers as if fingering the keys of the invented song stuck in his mind, and made sure to leave a large tip before dawdling in the direction of the door, and taking his time moving off the pavement onto the asphalt.

He was only a few feet into the car park when hands slipped over his eyes from behind. “Guess who?”

He smiled. “Timothy Dalton.”

“Out of all the names you could’ve plucked from thin air, you choose that one?” Mark popped around from behind him so that he stood in front instead, face scrunched up in confusion. His fringe fell in front of his face boyishly and Gary resisted the urge to brush his hair away from his eyes.

Gary shrugged. “I really like _Licence to Kill.”_ He started walking again.

Mark fell into step beside him, but they hadn’t gone far before he asked; “Where’s your car?”

“Oh well I don’t live far at all so I walk, unless I’ve shopping or errands to do.”

“Why don’t I drive you? It’s only fair, you drove me home, y’know?”

He hesitated, but if he were honest with himself it was only for show. “You sure? Really Mark, it’s not far.”

“Positive. Least I can do, right? Besides, who wants to walk in this heat?”

“All right, I guess if you’re gonna twist me arm about it, I don’t have a choice now do I?”

“That’s right. Now come on, Mr. Barlow, or there’ll be consequences.” He jerked his head in the direction of his car and started walking. Gary followed and Mark looked over his shoulder. “So I hear you’ve been comin’ here for ages; longer than even John’s worked here.”

“Oh well I’ve just been here for fifteen years. We found this place first week here and I’ve just been coming ever since.” Shit. He hadn’t meant to say ‘we.’ Now he had to go and explain that without being obvious. “I had a roommate when I first moved here; needed help getting back on his feet so he lived with me for a bit. I guess getting back on his feet meant two years of him loafing about refusing to do anything, so I had to kick him out. Hated doing it, but . . . .”

Gary could punch himself for the casual shrug and how easily it was from him to put on an air of disappointment. It was outright lying to say they were roommates, but to paint Brian as the bad guy and himself as the reluctant good guy doing what he had to despite what he wanted? He really did hate himself sometimes.

“Yeah, John said somethin’ about you havin’ a roommate some girl fancied. Apparently you were a real cock to her. That or she was high on cocaine, way John tells it.” Mark opened the passenger door for Gary and gestured in an overly-elegant way, grinning as he did it, for him to enter.

Gary smiled at the gesture, although he thought about how he _had_ been rude to that waitress when they first started going, but only after she had continually touched and giggled and flirted with Brian and offered her number every time they came in, and scowled at Gary every time he opened his mouth to order food. 

He patiently sat in the car and waited for Mark to get in the driver’s side before talking again. “People at your work talk a lot about me do they?”

Mark shifted in his driver’s seat. “Sometimes.”

The engine sputtered and Mark had to try to start it two, three times before it finally worked. “Sorry, it’s a bit old,” he murmured apologetically as he reversed out of the parking space. “So you let me know which way to go, yeah?”

Gary recognised the station as the oldies station that he listened to when he didn’t have his iPod, and smiled because he remembered it playing the first time he drove Mark home, too. Of course that only reminded him of the dream he’d had later that night, of them being young and kissing (among other things) in a car while rain washed over them, and he cleared his throat before giving directions, glad that as far as he knew anyway, Mark wasn’t secretly moonlighting as Professor X.

“Did you like the new X-Men movie? Er, _First Class?”_ he asked after a silence, one that had only been broken long enough to give directions, while Mark turned down the proper street.

“I loved it. Thought it was great, actually.”

“Right, this is me,” Gary said, pointing at the next house.

“You weren’t joking when you said it wasn’t far, were you?”

The car slowed to a stop and Gary looked at his home. Until now Mark had never seen it, despite the fact he’d been outside of Mark’s flat dozens of times. The car idled and the radio played quietly, and this really ought to be the end of their conversation, but it felt stilted and awkward to end it here. 

“Did you want to come in? I could show you around, unless you’ve errands to run.”

“Oh I’d love to, if it’s not a bother.”

“It’s not, really. C’mon.”

They left the car and Gary led the way up the paved path to his porch. “You have a nice home, Gary.”

“Thanks.” He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door, smiling over his shoulder at Mark. The door pushed open and the walked into the foyer, where Gary hung his keys on the wall on the rack he’d nailed there. “Was pretty new when we bought it, still looks nice if you ask me. I was thinking about--”

On the stand beneath the key rack, beside the empty vase, were a set of keys that weren’t his. He recognised the key ring, though.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath.

“Everything all right?” Mark put his hand on his shoulder blade.

There was an archway on either side of the hall, one that led to the kitchen and the other the sitting room, but past that were stairs that led to his studio and bedroom. The cupboard under the stairs held most of his CDs, and the door to it was wide open, with the light on inside, shining outward.

Ian, predictably, walked out from the cupboard, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the doorframe. He looked straight at Mark with narrowed eyes while he approached them, holding a CD in his hand. His eyes slid from Mark to Gary and he smiled falsely. “I was just in the neighbourhood, thought I should check on you as I hadn’t heard from you in awhile. Hope you don’t mind I let myself in. Who’s this?”

“This is my friend, Mark. So you just wanted to say hi then?” He gestured at the CD and pursed his lips even more. He knew he sounded irritated. He wasn’t trying to hide it.

“It’s good to see you making friends for once. I’m Ian, Gary’s brother.” He offered his hand, his smile more similar to baring his teeth than anything.

Mark accepted his hand and shook it. “I’m Mark, obviously. Was just tellin’ Gaz here what a lovely home he has, y’know.”

“It’s nice.” As usual, the dismissive tone wasn’t hidden. “You weren’t here but I didn’t think you’d mind me looking through your collection. I’m pretty sure I found some of my old things in there anyway, to be blunt.”

_No you didn’t._

Gary wisely kept his mouth shut.

Ian’s eyes slid back over to Mark and he tilted his head. “Aren’t you that Mark Owen chap?”

The fact that Ian had recognised him immediately whereas Gary hadn’t had a clue for ages bothered him. Then again, after all the railing Gary had done against the band and how often his family had backed him up, likely to make him feel better (and it certainly wasn’t Ian’s type of music, either) of course he had. It was actually more surprising Gary hadn’t recognised him immediately. In his own defence though, he had intentionally avoided any picture of the band, and especially any pictures of Mark after he and his ex-girlfriend ended their relationship.

“Yeah, that’s me. Why, you an old fan?” Mark’s smile was beautiful, but it looked different somehow; different than the one he was used to seeing. It took a second for Gary to realise that he was fake-smiling, but only because he’d seen his real one so many times. Even if Mark knew about Gary’s history with Take That, he really hoped Ian wouldn’t mention it because he didn’t need that right now.

“Oh, no, no. My wife loved you for years, even if she wouldn’t admit it. She was a bit older than the usual fare, if you catch my drift. So what’s this? You two writing together? Trying to have a comeback?” He looked between Gary and Mark expectantly, his smile verging into smirk territory.

Gary opened the drawer to a small stand beneath the key rack; paper and pens rattled about and he rearranged them before shutting the drawer and moving the empty vase beside it to the left.

“No, we’re just friends,” Mark answered slowly, after what was probably an incredibly awkward silence but Gary’s lips ached from pursing them and he could hear blood whooshing past his eardrums. He felt them both staring at him; staring at his back, and he could imagine the confusion and concern on Mark’s face, but of course he’d have no idea what was going on because he didn’t _know_ Ian; couldn’t hear the lilt in his voice, the carefully placed stress on certain words, knowing they would twist into Gary’s temples and chest. 

“That’s good, really. You can’t have your head in the clouds forever, can you? Glad to see you’re moving away from that, finally. I’m always telling him that he needs to settle down, focus on something more concrete, you know? Right, Gary?” Ian punched his arm. It didn’t hurt, not physically anyway, but Gary envisioned punching him in return, with a little more force and a little closer to his jaw.

Instead he turned away from the stand and smiled at Ian painfully. “Did you need something or did you just stop by to say hi? As you can see I’m busy.”

Ian’s face softened and his eyes flicked away briefly. His smile faltered, even though it hadn’t been genuine in the first place. Even if the irritation that buzzed beneath his skin was stronger, he did feel the beginnings of guilt stirring beneath that. “No, I didn’t need anything. You don’t mind if I borrow this do you?” He lifted the CD a little.

“Help yourself.”

Ian nodded and leaned forward, taking the keys from Gary’s stand. He turned to go towards the kitchen, where the garage door was, but then he faced the both of them again. He opened his mouth, looked at Mark once more, then hummed. “Bit weird, the two of you meeting up and it not being about writing.” He used the tone that both he and Gary had picked up from their mother; the one she always used when she was passive-aggressively letting them know she knew damn well it wasn’t the cat who broke the fine china. “It’s good, though, to focus on something more substantial.”

“Goodbye Ian.”

“I’ll see you around then.” He nodded at them in parting before going through the archway that led into the kitchen.

Gary waited for him to hear the door close before he looked at Mark again, who was staring at him with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. He was going to have to start locking the garage. “So that was Ian, and that’s the kitchen. If you want something to eat, I could make you something, or you can help yourself, I don’t mind.” Mark’s expression didn’t change, so he moved towards the direction of the living room, moving beneath that archway, the tips of his ears burning as well as his cheeks. “This is the living room.” It was large with a cream-coloured ceiling and peach walls, with hardwood floors. His black baby grand was on the other side of the living room, and he pointed at it. “There’s my piano,” he informed, as if Mark were blind, and then he hoped that Mark wouldn’t notice the plate and glass he’d left on the coffee table in front of his sofa. He’d only had biscuits and milk as a snack, but Mark wouldn’t know that.

“Bad blood I’m guessing.”

Gary let out at long sigh and ducked his head, staring at his shoes. “Well it isn’t good blood.” He scuffed the ground, then let out a sigh, turning to face Mark. “I’m sorry, I was rude. There’s no way around it, I was being rude. He’s only concerned, of course, like older brothers are. He just thinks that ‘cause he _is_ the older brother that he’s entitled and can boss me around. Do you know what I mean?”

“I’m the oldest in my family.”

“Well that’s awkward.”

Mark smiled at him and put his hands in his trouser pockets. “It’s all right, I don’t mind. I know I can be a twat.”

He wondered if Mark was thinking that, obviously, Gary could be too. Maybe he wasn’t, but Gary certainly was, and rubbed his temple. “He’s just concerned, is all. I really shouldn’t be so bothered by it, but he just--he says these _things._ And I get it, I do. I played at bein’ a pop star far too long, pushed it way too much. It’s me own fault, really, and I was naïve. He was the one with his head screwed on straight, always was, and . . . Well, I suppose that just because I don’t like hearing it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t listen, I dunno. Should’ve seen him when I made the studio upstairs, still haven’t heard the end of that.” Along with the anger the he always felt when he ruminated over what Ian thought about Gary’s involvement with music, came the crushing weight of knowing that he was right. “Not that I blame him. He is right, y’know. I _did_ put too much--”

“He doesn’t want you writing music, I gathered that much on me own. I don’t mean to be awful but he’s not exactly tactful, Gaz.” Mark stepped closer, hands still in his pockets, but his head tilted. “After the label dropped you, did you even try?”

Gary opened his mouth, because it felt like he had; it felt like he had given every inch of himself over to the music. He’d wailed and cried and thrown bottles and kicked chairs across rooms; pounded away at the keys until the drivel that bounced back at him drove him to tears, and then some. He scribbled in notebooks and on the back of receipts and napkins and tapped away on tabletops, humming under his breath so he wouldn’t forget the chord progression, and sang until his throat went raw. He had notebooks littered with lyrics and notes, fully composed songs, that would never see the light of day.

But none of that mattered, did it, if nobody _saw_ it. A long love song with no meaning was even less if nobody heard, and how he’d hoped nobody would. So nobody had.

“No.”

“Then you didn’t put too much into anything. I went bankrupt, Gaz. I lost everything tryin’ me hardest. If he thinks that little of you--that little of what honestly, truly makes you happy, what you want out of life--then he must think a shit load less of me. Do you think I’m a moron, Gary? Do you think I should’ve given up and said fuck all, why bother?”

“Of course not.”

“Then don’t think that way about yourself. Just because he’s concerned doesn’t make him right. If anything, you should’ve tried harder, and if you don’t want to settle down and live the way he thinks you should, then don’t.”

Nobody, not once, had ever said that to him.

Ever.

Not a lover, not a family member or even friend, though he hadn’t had any for years, had ever once told him that he should’ve tried harder; that what he wanted was all right. It was always about when he was going to move on; when he was going to focus on getting a family, finding someone special. They asked him why he made the studio, not why he never used it. They asked him when he was going to focus on the stuff that matters, instead of asking why he wasn’t focusing on what mattered to him.

Somewhere inside he’d wanted them to ask the other side of those questions, and yet nobody had; he hadn’t been able to vocalise what he’d needed to hear, or even put thoughts to what he’d wanted. Nobody ever hesitated to tell him what he should be doing, and yet none of them had ever asked what he wanted to be doing instead. Except that the second Mark had asked he knew that those were the sentences he’d longed and needed to hear.

Hundreds of times over he’d been told that now he could finally look into finding a nice girl; now he could focus on a real job; now it was time for him to put away childish dreams and wrap up in reality.

The people closest to him, who had loved and known him for years, had somehow missed all the right words to say, as much as they had truly been concerned, and little Mark Owen from a band Gary had hated out of spite and lack of true talent stood two feet from him, speaking the very words he’d dreamt of hearing for years, and all Gary wanted to do was kiss him senseless.

“Do you want to see my studio?” he asked instead, which may as well have been the same as kissing, because he hadn’t shown anyone that since 2007 (and she hadn’t cared for it, anyway).

Mark’s lopsided grin shone as brightly as the sun piercing through his windows. “I’d love to.”

* * *

One minute, Mark was wishing the ground would swallow him up because being nearby while two bothers had a tense conversation filled with years of memories Mark knew nothing about (other than what Gary had told him during one of their conversations back when he was still giving him rides to and from work; nothing deeper than anecdotes, about as relevant as the stories he‘d told him of his own family) and seeing his friend become rude and closed off in a manner of seconds when he was used to him being far more open and congenial was awkward, and the next he was grinning ear to ear, beyond glad he’d offered to give Gary a ride home, because the studio was gorgeous, considering it was set up in his own home, and Gary’s voice was something he could fall in love with, all over again.

He explained that they’d once been two rooms that shared a wall, but he’d torn them down and built it himself (or rather, hired people to build it to his specifications) and talked about the equipment and how he’d found the right kind, how many times he’d updated it and torn things out to replace it; the recording system on the other side of the window, which looked as professional as the ones Mark had used in the nineties despite being in someone’s home, and pressed buttons and switched toggles while he spoke about brand names and sound quality. He took Mark into the recording area and showed him the pedals and the keyboard. Mark laughed as if he were being told some sort of in-joke while he described each one, childlike glee on his face, and Gary laughed along as if he, too, knew the joke that didn’t exist.

When Mark asked him to play the keyboard, Gary touched it as if he’d been longing for the question for years. Perhaps he had.

Gary’s large hands and nimble fingers danced across the keys. At first he played a medley of classical pieces, something he had clearly worked on before because there was no hesitation between the parts and there were a few key changes in some of the pieces so that the differences between them weren’t stark, and then he worked it into Your Song.

Old CDs and Youtube videos didn’t do Gary justice.

To say he sang beautifully was an understatement. His voice was clear and perfect and hit each note as if it were created for him, and something inside Mark’s chest burst; the same something that had burst when he came across A Million Love Songs all those years ago, and listened to the CD he bought himself repeatedly, and there was just something real about Gary; the words, the lyrics, even if the music on his albums was too effected and popped up. Mark understood why because he, too, had had to deal with that in his own life; he knew what managers wanted. In reality, there was none of that.

“Could you do A Million Love Songs? Sorry, you probably get tired of that one.” It was his biggest hit, after all; the one he was known for and Mark knew how annoying it could be to be known for one thing above all others.

Gary only smiled and immediately began to play it.

Mark had to say, it was much better live.

The words he’d committed to memory ages ago issued from Gary’s mouth, clearer than ever, louder and more beautiful, and all Mark wanted to do was gape at him and soak in every note and word and imagine staring into Gary’s eyes a foot away, smiling while people around them cheered to let them know that they and their music really mattered, and they weren’t forever gone and drifting into nothingness; that their hard work actually had paid off. As silly as it may have sounded it really meant something to him, even if it wasn’t the most intellectually profound song that ever existed, and there wasn’t any meaningful memory to attach himself to for it.

When the song ended, Gary’s cheeky grin brought Mark back to reality. “Any other suggestions?”

“If it’s not too personal a question . . . .” He tried to ask what or who it was about, although he’d read the lyrics and analysed them ages ago so he knew the basic premise of the song so he felt silly for wondering if there was a deeper story. He tried to work out a way to finish the question without sounding as if he’d never listened to it, because he honestly had.

Gary stared at the keys and pressed one of the keys. “You want to know what it’s about.” Mark nodded, although seeing as Gary was looking downward he likely couldn’t see. “I’m afraid it might disappoint you, it’s terribly common.”

“You can write songs about common things without it being common itself.”

Gary hit another note. “I was fifteen and in love with my best friend.” He looked away from the keys with a wan smile on his face, eyes looking at something past Mark.

He wanted to express shock at how old Gary had been when he’d written it, but he knew. Somehow, he knew, but that was, unfortunately, the price of being famous. He must’ve read a tidbit about him in a magazine, or heard about it on the radio, and it stuck with him for years to come. It was his most famous song, so by now he was sure it was common knowledge. But he deserved to hear the praise.

“That’s a mature song for a fifteen year old, Gaz.”

“Thank you.” He pressed another note and then another, still looking at Mark. “Do you know how to play?” Mark nodded, and Gary stood away from the keyboard. “Do you want to?” He pointed at it, eyes lighting up and smile curving the corners of his mouth. “I’d love to hear you play something, Mark.”

Sitting at the keyboard was easy. Adjusting the mic so that it wasn’t too high for him was simple, too. It was putting his hands on the keys, deciding what to play, and actually singing that gave Mark pause. He’d never liked his voice and had always thought his talent more than lacking. His voice was strange and he couldn’t hit notes like Gary could, not even nearly as clearly.

He used to do this for a living, though, so he fought through nervousness after a moment’s hesitation, and chose Street Spirit. He’d played it before, too many times to count, so he went through it as naturally as breathing. Yet, as always, he hated his voice. He wasn’t a vocalist like Gary and he’d smoked for years; even if he’d been lucky enough that the cigarettes hadn’t totally destroyed his throat like it had some people, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that it hadn’t hindered him at all. Besides it wasn’t like he’d had a glorious voice to start with anyway.

He sang out the last note and played out the end of the song on the piano, and despite this being the first time he’d ever performed in front of Gary, privately, and he was shaking a little on the inside from nerves, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He hadn’t had someone who truly appreciated music listen to him in a long time, if ever. Even if he might’ve been terrible, this was a step forward into something he’d wanted for years--not Gary, specifically, listening, but someone who honestly cared, and there was no doubt in his mind that Gary did.

“That was beautiful.”

Mark stared at Gary, at his shimmering eyes and half-smile, and grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think so?”

“Absolutely, that was amazing.” Gary bit down on his lip, then licked it, brows furrowing briefly. “I wonder . . . . Actually, I think--I think we could sing together, actually. I mean, sing well. You’re hitting some notes that . . . .” He turned away from Mark and started heading to the door, rubbing the back of his head. “. . . really think we could offset each other, harmonise,” he murmured so quietly Mark wondered if he was talking to himself at this point. When he opened the door, he turned back around to face Mark. “Actually I should’ve asked first, sorry. Would you like to--”

“Yes.”

Mark knew what people thought of his smile, because he’d been defined by and reduced to it. However if they had ever looked at Gary’s, they would’ve forgotten his in a heartbeat, because it truly, when genuine, didn’t light up the room, but instead lit up the world.

* * *

It wasn’t until Gary had taken a break to make the both of them sandwiches that he looked at the clock. It was past eight, and he’d resolved not to take up more of Mark’s time. Of course, after they’d eaten their sandwiches, they’d gone right back to the homemade studio to finish singing various Disney love songs, because he’d pulled out his The Lion King songbook and it had spiralled into five other Disney songbooks from there. Gary typically focused on the higher-ranged vocals and Mark the lower-ranged; when they’d stumbled over their words in A Whole New World, they’d lost it in a fit of giggles, and had to start over again.

When Gary asked Mark to do backing vocals for A Million Love Songs, he hadn’t hesitated, and he jumped at the chance to sing a lovely cover of Could It Be Magic Gary had put together years ago; something much better than Take That had produced, more heartfelt and beautiful.

It was almost ridiculous how well their voices worked together. Hearing their harmonies tightened his chest and buzzed around in his head, skin, heart. Faces inches away and at times grinning at each other so hard he worried about enunciation, he could honestly say he’d not once had this much enjoyment singing with someone before in his life. Listening to their recordings back only proved their vocal chemistry and perfection. He knew Mark had a beautiful voice, but hearing it live, hearing it work along with his was something else; as if they’d shifted together, two pieces interlocking from separated puzzles and yet the portrait they built was even better than before.

“It would’ve been brilliant if Nigel had let you in,” Mark said as they listened to their words stumbling over Aladdin’s and Jasmine’s lyrics, breaking into laughter. “We wouldn’t have sounded like such shit.”

“I’m sure your songs sounded just fine, listening to this.”

“I didn’t have songs. I didn’t . . . sing, in Take That.”

As Gary was focusing on the computer and not looking at Mark, he turned in his chair to stare at him. “What?”

“Charlie and Rob did all the singing. They never offered to give me parts, and I never asked. Jay and Howard, they did the backing vocals, and I helped a bit with that, but that’s it, really.”

“But you’ve got a beautiful voice, Marky. You should share it.” 

Mark smiled and twisted his chair to the side, looking down at the floor, and Gary caught a hint of red on his cheeks. When he looked at the clock, though, his smile disappeared and his eyes widened. “Oh mate, it’s past ten, that’s . . . well, don’t mean to be awful but I really ought to go.”

“Right, of course.”

He got out of his chair and walked alongside Mark, opening the studio door for him. It was unnecessary, but so was walking with him at all. “I enjoyed that, actually,” he said, letting Mark go in front of him down the stairs. 

“Me too Gaz, it was fun. We could do it again sometime?” Mark glanced over his shoulder.

Gary nodded. “We should. Can hardly believe how great we sound together.” The way their voices fit together sounded as if they’d spent years practising getting it that way; they were such a natural fit. 

Mark chuckled as he neared the door. He turned and leaned against the door to outside, arms folded across his chest and a stern look directed at Gary, though if his smile was anything to go by, it was ironic. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Barlow.”

He stepped closer; far too close for mere friends to stand, and he looked down at Mark through lowered lashes before he could stop himself. “It’s not flattery if it’s honest.” He heard how deep his voice was and knew that he was flirting with Mark, despite specifically promising himself he wouldn’t--and after turning Mark down, and telling him he was straight, there wasn’t a _point_ to doing it . . . and therein, perhaps, lay the safety. Mark would never call him on it.

Gary was a terrible person.

Mark’s smile was as dangerous and knowing as it was beautiful, and maybe he was playing the game, too.

“I’ll see you later, Gaz. Text me?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Gary grinned after Mark left, and grinned through the news about their heat wave, though he did change the channel after the story about the thirteen car pile up in London with no survivors. He found himself chuckling through a piano piece he’d made a few years ago, and found new vigour in singing the lyrics nobody had heard but him, finally sounding victorious and hopeful for the first time since he’d written it. When he did dream, he dreamt of singing in front of thousands, with Mark at his side.


	6. And What Are Afternoons?

Although the urge to ask Mark to sing with him again bubbled under his skin nigh-on constantly, he didn’t bring it up; he didn’t want to be pushy. Instead he texted Mark about everything else, who responded during lunch break and after work. He went to the diner on Friday and gave a little wave in greeting, to go home and call him on lunch break so they could talk about musicians they admired and films they enjoyed.

They texted about their siblings on Saturday during lunch; Mark had a brother and a sister, Daniel and Tracey, who he seemed to get along with, although of course as far as most people were concerned he and Ian had a great relationship, and that was the way he wanted it. After Mark’s shift ended, he complained about his feet hurting and how he needed new shoes, which made Gary ask if he would like to go shopping with him on Monday, since Gary was thinking about going to the shops to find some new albums anyway.

_that would be lovely gaz…could get some new clothes as well_

Smirking, Gary quirked his eyebrow at his mobile to text; _u implying that I have bad fashion ? cheeky !_

_I meant me but now that you mention it…jk_

He knew that he ought not to have spent two minutes thinking of the best way to subtly imply something sexual without making it too obvious he was intentionally flirting, but he did anyway, finally settling on: _u always look lovely guess u will have to dress me urself hope ur hands are warm_

Eight minutes later, he started panicking and mentally coming up with texts that were apologetic or trying to take what he said back, except then if he did that Mark would know it was intentional. Besides, perhaps Mark was busy. He couldn’t text Gary all the time, could he?

Three minutes after that, Gary was fiddling with the remote and changing channels without really giving anything a chance, tongue and teeth dragging over his bottom lip and eye jerking over to the phone repeatedly.

The text tone went off and he yanked it, opening the text immediately.

_now who’s the cheeky one mr barlow……how can I resist an offer like that tho ;)_

If he replied too quickly the he’d seem to eager, so he waited three minutes before he allowed himself to text back. _no need to resist i give you full permission to manhandle me_

He waited fifteen seconds, then winced before texting a simple _lol._

As soon as he sent that off, his phone beeped--too soon for Mark to have received his lol, and butterflies swatted at the lining of his stomach (though he couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or anticipation).

_been wanting to touch that chest of yours for ages_

Gary nearly swallowed his tongue, heat blooming in his face and elsewhere, much further south. Thinking of Mark’s small, smooth hands sliding across his shirt, then sneaking up it, lowered lashes and moistened lips gazing up at him was not only hotter than it should’ve been, but more vivid, and--

The phone went off again and Gary excitedly opened that text.

_jk ;)_

After turning Mark down, continuing to flirt with him was an idiotic thing to do; not only was it dangerous for him, but it was unfair to Mark. He shouldn’t have started it in the first place, because God only knew how this text conversation had seemed on the other end of it. Were he younger and more naïve than he was, he would’ve assumed that Mark’s little _jk ;)_ was serious and that it had all been a joke. However, he wasn’t a teenaged schoolboy playing coy with an equally-as-coy student; he was a grown man, fully aware that Mark had intended on asking him on a date, and continually giving him hints and flirting but refusing to take the plunge. Even over text, it was cruel and selfish.

_How does Tuesday sound ?_ he asked while he wondered whether actually taking the plunge for once might be worth it. Mark would understand if Gary asked him to lie low about it for awhile, wouldn’t he?

When the tone rang out he opened it, but the warmth settling in his stomach and the cogs whirring in his mind froze. The text was from Ian.

_Thank you for lending me that album. Did you and Mark have a good time?_

He recalled Ian’s suspicious eyes squinting as he’d mentioned how giving up on music was a good idea, and the way his eyebrow moved when he’d seen Mark in the first place; the same squint and same quirk he’d given Gary when he’d moved into this place with his roommate. All it took was imagining Ian half-cornering Mark during a dinner and asking him when he’d last gone to church and pursing his lips if Mark dared to reach for Gary’s hand while they sat around the table discussing a recent footie game, for Gary to stop considering anything.

* * *

Tuesday came not only with a bang, but a shower.

After the intense heat wave they’d seen--the hottest their weather had been for as long as he remembered--waking in the early morning to the cracking boom of thunder was relieving.

It hadn’t rained since June, though the heat wave had started before then, and that had been the only time Gary had been truly comfortable with the temperature since May. He’d even had AC installed, seeing as he could afford it, but not many people had the luxury he had; Mark told him he’d bought a small fan and had been draping cool cloths against the back of his neck with his windows open, and the misery the heat caused had been the topic of more than a few conversations with his mother over the phone. The sound of rain pattering his windows and house reminded him of soft gunfire, and he grinned in his pillow despite the foreboding that filled his gut.

Along with the godsend of a rainstorm, Tuesday also came either quicker, or slower, than it should have, depending on Gary’s thought processes while contemplating hindsight. When he saw Mark’s wide, bright smile and felt his hand on his shoulder, it seemed slower; when his stomach swooped because of those actions in a way he’d dreaded and yet hoped for, it had seemed too quick. It was stupid; he was far too old to be so ambivalent about where to take his feelings about a former pop star from a band he had hated like a petulant child with sour grapes who was making Gary consider changing his stance on the fact fate didn’t exist.

Before he’d left to drive to Mark’s flat, he texted to make sure he still wanted to go shopping; considering the fact it hadn’t been merely raining, but storming, the streets were flooded and traffic was hell. It wasn’t pouring down anymore, however it was still lightly drizzling. Mark had insisted he was excited to go shopping and that he really needed the shoes, so Gary had left, chest tightening while he drove through the rain and stomach in knots, though whether that was from the fear of collisions or the idea of seeing Mark, he didn’t know. It was likely both.

Gary had expected Mark to act awkward, or strange, or flirtier than normal, because of the texts, but Mark didn’t; he acted as he normally did. He hugged Gary when he picked him up, but it was quick and not out of place in a friendship. Nor was the fact that when Gary told him, while he showed off the twentieth pair of shoes, that the eighteenth pair looked more stylish as well as more comfortable, Mark thanked him and squeezed his arm.

It had been a long time since Gary had flirted with anyone, or dipped his toe in the dating pool at all. Even before then, he hadn’t been particularly invested in it. That wasn’t to say that Gary wasn’t a romantic--he was. With music. He’d never liked allowing himself to let loose in public. Then again, that might’ve been because he’d never really been in the position that allowing himself to show that side was appropriate. He’d never been comfortable with letting someone he was dating wrap her arms around him in public, and he certainly hadn’t allowed men to do it either. Ear stroking and cheek kissing was completely okay in private, but in public? Girl or guy, it just hadn’t been his cup of tea, though he admitted it was for entirely different reasons. With men, well, that was obvious. He didn’t want anyone seeing. With women? He just hadn’t liked it.

Since it had been such a long while though, he didn’t know if what had happened over text between him and Mark was considered awkward; however, from Mark’s end, having a man who had turned him down a week previously making those comments to quickly add lol after, must’ve been confusing and he’d expected Mark to test the waters a bit more because of it. Or maybe Gary had simply wanted it to happen.

“Fancy tea before we head off to get you some clothes?” Mark jerked his head towards a small eatery with small tables outside, with umbrellas. “I’m buying.”

“You don’t have to pay for anything.”

“You drove me to work and back for how long? I’m paying and don’t try and convince me otherwise. C’mon.”

They were seated outside per Mark’s request, despite the weather. The sky was a dismal grey with a cool breeze. Gary had put on a jumper and jeans so he was comfortable; Mark wore a lavender scarf (though it was thin and thus likely not for the weather) that matched his V-necked shirt. He had on a jacket, though unzipped, and his usually wavy, brown hair was straightened. With the new shoes, he looked fit for a date, but Mark pretty much always did.

Gary wondered if he should’ve dressed better.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Not really. If it rains the umbrella will protect us. Unless you wanted to move?”

Gary shook his head. Mark wasn’t looking at him, though, but at something behind him. He turned in his seat to see two young girls jumping from the curb into the gutter, splashing dirty water everywhere. Their giggles carried over to them as did their mum’s admonition, grabbing their hands and hastily pulling them to the pavement.

Gary turned back to face Mark, who glanced downward at the table with a frown. “Me last boyfriend, the one I told you about, I started dating him in 2004 but we broke it off in 2008 ‘cause he didn’t want kids.” He gestured at the kids, though Gary didn’t turn to look at them. “I’ve always wanted kids, we’d talked about it and all, he said he’d wanted ‘em too, but when I sat him down and said right then, let’s look into it, he backed away. Thought maybe, well, I’d sprung it up on him a bit, maybe should’ve taken more time to get him more used to the idea. We’d talked about it, yeah, but I guess nothin’ too much. Things didn’t go too well after that. It’s why we hated each other that last year. He stuck with me through me trying to produce my own record company, through me going bankrupt, through my shit jobs and shit money and more’n a few breakdowns, but the idea of having kids? I’d just been promoted, I was finally making enough money to be comfortable with two incomes, and he . . . .” He waved his hand outward before folding them across his chest.

“I’m sorry.” It was trite, but all he could think of saying.

Mark frowned. “I dunno what it is, I’ve just been thinkin’ about it lately is all--having kids. I kept puttin’ it off, you know? Waitin’ until I was through with music, waitin’ until I’d settled down, found my career, all of that. But I wasn’t ever happy, I just wanted to try it one more time, just one more stab at music. And when I finally said all right, that’s enough, and settled down? Got financially stable, had the right guy, wasn’t off in me head moaning about my failed career or draggin’ Jamie and everyone on a crap tour for a bloody year, turned out he’d only been goin’ along with all my kid talks ‘cause he thought I’d never actually do it.”

“Well you’ve still got time, Mark. Like I said last week, Elton’s adopted and he’s much older than we are.”

The corner of Mark’s mouth lifted and the breeze picked up a little just long enough to blow his fringe in his eyes. “What about you, Gaz?”

A car drove by slowly, and Gary watched it instead, at the rippling wave it made, and at another pair of children across the road, jumping in a puddle. He licked his bottom lip and forced his eyes back to Mark. “I never really thought about it. It’s not that I don’t want kids, but I really, honestly, never thought much about anything other than having a career in music. I didn’t spend time thinkin’ about finding the right girl or marriage or going out on dates. One track mind, y’know? And that track was music. There’s a reason why Ian and Mum say what they do, and it’s ‘cause I honestly didn’t think of anything else.”

“Well what do you think about it now, then?”

His mind froze and mouth opened but he had nothing to say. It was more than being too preoccupied with music, though that was a large reason for it. Having his mind constantly whirring with thoughts of stages and bright lights and melodies of his own making was more than just an unintentional distraction; wanting it more than anything meant that he’d never have to want something that he traditionally couldn’t have; a man. Distraction, preoccupation, and here he was at forty-two, and he didn’t have an answer.

His fingers rubbed together and he tapped on the table nervously, worrying his lip between his teeth. Kids. Even still, he couldn’t answer; it was something people spent most of their lives contemplating, or deciding on years before their forties. Suddenly being asked to think on it, when he had spent his whole life obsessing over something else and avoiding the topic entirely, was overwhelming. He’d never thought it was an option, but he’d just told Mark that it was for him, so why wouldn’t it be for himself? Being gay wasn’t an obstacle anymore; being past forty wasn’t, either. With the obstacles he’d forced on himself before he’d even known what those obstacles really meant out of the way, and no excuse to avoid the topic, staring at the first man he’d had any real interest in for more than a decade, he could really consider it.

But he honestly _didn’t know._

Mark’s warm palm slid over his, and the incessant tapping quit. “It’s okay, Gaz. You don’t have to know right now. Like you said, Elton’s in his sixties.”

Mark’s thumb grazed over Gary’s knuckles. Stomach swooping and throat drying, he turned his hand so he could squeeze Mark’s. He smiled and nodded once before letting go.

The waiter returned with Mark’s green tea and Gary’s Earl Grey, steam rising from it in curls; it had been far too hot lately for warm drinks, and the grey skies and cool air felt much more like home than the bright, sweltering heat he’d endured for weeks. It was a relief to be able to order something hot to drink again, and Gary felt the heat from it while he cupped the mug. He could do without the flooding streets and horrible traffic, though. The waiter took their order and their menus with the promise to return quickly.

Mark stirred his tea, shoulders drawn and soft smile playing at his lips.

“Bad weather for getting new shoes. You’ll get ‘em all wet.”

Mark shrugged. “Gotta break ‘em in somehow. Should never go to work wearing shoes for the first time. And anyway, it’s a relief, the rain. Shame about St Andrews, though; lightning struck it, and houses have caught fire. Not pretty; heard it on the news this morning, about two dozen people’ve been killed today. Guess we were lucky, eh?”

“Bloody hell. I actually haven’t watched the news since Wednesday.”

Mark furrowed his brows. His mug clinked against the tabletop. “Actually, er. This is sad, really, but one of the women who died in that crash--the er, the thirteen car pile up? She was actually a dancer on our last tour, Take That’s. Howard dated her.” His adam’s apple bobbed and he rubbed at his forehead. “We weren’t close or anything, but it’s still . . . .” A lump formed in Gary’s throat and his chest tightened. “She was so sweet, Dawn. She was in that video with you, actually. Isn’t that terrible?”

The memory was faded and old, but he did remember her; her blonde hair and how quiet she had been. They hadn’t talked, but his eyes stung and it was hard to swallow his tea despite that. Nearly made him sick, to be honest. “How’s Howard taking it? Do you still talk to him or . . . ?”

“Howard killed himself in ‘97.”

“Jesus Christ.” The sting in his eyes intensified and his chest tightened even more. “Sorry, it seems I have a knack for bringing up the most depressing conversational topics.”

“It’s all right, you had no way of knowing. Besides it was me that brought up the weather, so it was my fault. Sorry about that.”

“So this guy you dated, you dated him for three years you said?” He really only said it to change the topic of conversation. The subject had twisted his stomach into nauseating knots; moreso than he would’ve expected. It genuinely hurt.

“Four and a half. It was a good relationship, really, and we got along and we didn’t fight too much, except for the last year. Probably my most successful relationship, but y’know, I think it was a bit of a blessing that he didn’t want kids ‘cause sometimes, when you’re out of a relationship, you can look back and see things for what they really were now that you’re not too close to the situation, and we didn’t really mesh all that well together. But what can you do? My other relationships were all . . . constant ups and ups and ups, so the minute it dropped they were over. Or loads of fighting, one or the other. It was either nothing real and nothing but fun, or screaming matches. So with him, it was a real one, with ups and downs and we got along and we loved each other, but I don’t think we were really compatible, in the end. Plus the kid thing.” He sipped his tea with an arm shrug, grey eyes watching the matching, slightly drizzling, sky.

“Sounds like you’ve had loads of relationships then.”

“After Take That split up and I came out, trust me. I wasn’t wanting for anything, ‘cept an actual solo career of course. Which reminds me, and I don’t mean to be awful so if you don’t want to answer it’s all right, tell me about this girl you dated, you know. You two loved me more than each other.” He waggled his eyebrows with a mischievous grin.

Gary sipped his own tea, though only to hide the fact he hadn’t chuckled. He smiled, though, and hoped it was enough. “Well, it’s really just me being funny,” he said, though he really wasn’t. “Well, guess part of the comedy is the not-comedy, eh?” It slipped out before he could stop himself, and when Mark’s face flickered, he regretted it. “Her and I weren’t . . . really that great of a relationship. Bit like what you were saying earlier, about the two of you not being compatible? It was like that. Well, to be honest, I don’t think I’m really all that compatible with anyone.”

“Oh, don’t say that Gaz, really. I’m sure there’s someone out there for you.”

There probably was someone; a male someone.

Gary swallowed more tea, though really only to stall time. “I’m . . . picky, is the word. I’ve only been in three relationships, and the longest was three years. It nearly killed me when it ended.” It was also the only relationship he’d had with a man; the only one he’d lost himself in misery after, too.

“Were you two that incompatible?”

“Christ no, I’m not talking about her. Allison, her and I were . . . like I said, we both loved you more than each other. Least that’s how it felt. You know how I said I was picky? Well ‘cause of that, every time someone shows any interest in me, my mum and brother call in the cavalry, the Queen of England, start planning stag nights and baby showers, the whole works.” Mark laughed, though whether it was the story or Gary gesticulating he didn’t know. “And when I’m not interested, you’d think I’d run over a stray kitten, they’re all moping and kicking up dirt. Thing is, ‘cause I’m so picky, they have a hard time picking out dates--all right, so I may have written a list of the perfect girl because Ian asked me to--and they are always on the look out. They’re always ringing me, sayin’; ‘Gary, there’s eight marked off your list, I’m telling you she’s the one, she’s got three divorces under her belt and has sworn off men forever, but I know you can get her to come ‘round, if anyone can it’s a Barlow!’ and all that. But I didn’t want to write a bloody list in the first place!”

Mark threw his head back in laughter, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open wide, without a care in the world about how loud it was. Its infectiousness made it hard for Gary to rear back his own, though a few giggles escaped anyway.

“I’m bein’ serious, this actually happens! All right, so they give me a ring and introduce me to Allison, and she’s gorgeous--really, truly gorgeous--and she likes all the right music and she’s quiet and introverted, but she’s not too withdrawn or anything, not quite shy, right, and she has the tattoo, it’s all great, you know? So they set us up on this date, and it goes perfectly. It was one of those rare moments where everything’s going just right, and you hit off great and have the right conversations and you both like the same movies and but she’s not a carbon copy, right? She’s really the right woman for me, everything I’ve got on paper that I want, and there’s absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t fall madly in love.”

Except she wasn’t a man.

“But I didn’t.” Gary’s expressive tone died. His hands stopped moving around and lay flat on the table. It must’ve looked as serious and sombre as he felt, because Mark wasn’t laughing anymore. There was no way Mark would know why it hadn’t worked, but he had to have picked up on the fact that it wasn’t pleasant for Gary, despite the joking. “We dated a year a half. 2005 to 2007, and I never once loved her. I thought, well, you don’t fall in love after three months, you better give it more time. It’ll fall into place. And we dated and had sex and we spent time together, all of that. Soon we were a year strong and we moved in together, because that’s what adults in serious, committed relationships do, and I thought, well, living together will do it, won’t it? We’ll fall in love. It didn’t. I liked her and enjoyed my time with her, but that’s as far as it went. 

“But anyway, Allison was a Take That fan when she was younger, but especially a fan of you. She had all your solo albums. When she bought the new one, we listened to them all. Repeatedly. Over and over and over, and we memorised the words and we sang them together, but we never loved each other.”

It was impossible to decipher the expression Mark had on his face; there was something soft about it, anyway, and Gary had to look away from his eyes. He couldn’t meet his eyes and see his face while he recalled nights of falling in love with those lyrics repeatedly and hating himself for refusing to pick up a Take That alumn solo album all those years ago no matter how many times he’d gravitated towards the CD in the shops and caught himself looking at the beautiful man surround by green. Giggling with Allison while they looked through the album artwork and being struck with how beautiful he was and talented and smart and so unlike Take That and mentally agreeing with her every time she noted how attractive Mark was had been the highlight of that relationship. He really ought not to be sitting at a table drinking tea with him, knowing that whenever they’d made love while listening to his albums their sex was more passionate and intense, or how Mark’s deep voice stirred his chest the way locking eyes with a pretty girl for the first time should or how his skin buzzed and his eyes watered hearing the emotion buried into each word Mark sung, as if the words smoothed along his skin, baritone ricocheting off his bones and rattling his heart while it pumped his lyrics through his veins. How could he tell him that the reason he’d locked those albums away and never pulled them out after they broke up was because he knew that he’d barrelled straight through musical appreciation and right into a pathetic fan boy crush--and also because if Allison knew where they were, she would take them. If she simply thought she’d lost them, however . . . .

But Gary couldn’t tell him he’d both hid them from her and himself, or how he’d gone to lengths to forget those CDs existed at all. And having them locked away for six years had done the trick, hadn’t it? He’d forgotten what Mark had looked like, although in his defence, Mark had changed quite a bit, and he hadn’t had any pictures of himself in the last album he’d released, anyway.

“If you don’t feel something you don’t feel it, Gaz. No need to beat yourself up over it. Besides, is dating and marriage the most important thing in life?” Mark snorted and shook his head.

“You don’t know my family.”

“Well your life shouldn’t be about what _they_ want. And if you’re going to be in a long term relationship, or married for God’s sake, shouldn’t you at least be doing it with someone you actually care about, not just stick with ‘em ‘cause you’re supposed to?”

He was right, of course. Right in the same way people were when they said sexual orientation shouldn’t matter. But it did matter; it mattered because Mark ended up with a black eye for being mistaken once and having his solo career flop, and it mattered because producers and managers told boys and girls that they aren’t gay, even if they are; if they want to make it in the business, then by God they’re straight. It mattered because his family would hate him otherwise, and it mattered because people still voted on whether or not it did, and if he had ever held Mark’s hand across from his dad while he was alive, he would’ve been disappointed and might not have ever talked to him again. If he did that today, across from Ian and Mum, they wouldn’t see him the same way. He heard the comments they made about passing gay men and women growing up; he knew exactly what they’d say when he wasn’t around, if he was even allowed to be around after that.

It was easier said than done. He shouldn’t care about those hurtful, ignorant slurs they’d said about others and would say about him. But he did.

“It’s why I ended it. If we weren’t in love after all that, well.” He shrugged and took a sip. Of course he wasn’t being honest. Then again, when was he?

“I’m glad you did. You’d be surprised how many people drag on relationships that just aren’t working. Thank God I never have.”

At least Gary could say that he was being honest now. “Guess I haven’t either.”

* * *

Lunch was great, even if the rain had picked up a little sometime during their meal. Despite how dangerous the weather had been and the trouble it had caused, Mark enjoyed it. It was such a reprieve, considering how it had been before, and he only had a small fan in his room to help alleviate the heat. More than a few people had stared at them while they ate outside, but Mark didn’t care what they thought.

Gary didn’t mention the fact that other patrons had their eyes trained on them, but once he saw them through the windows, he shifted in his seat and ate more carefully. He cared far too much what people thought about him. He cared far too much about what his family wanted and expected of him, too. Perhaps it was unfair of Mark to criticise, seeing as his family had always supported him in everything and judging from what Gary had said as well as the little meeting he’d had with Ian, that wasn’t the case with him. 

After they’d finished eating and Mark had paid despite Gary asking twice if he was sure, they went back to the shops. “Said I’d pick out something for you to wear, didn’t I?” He nudged Gary with his elbow and winked.

Gary smiled at him and didn’t nudge so much as _press_ against him. “Been lookin’ forward to it, honestly.”

Considering that this was the first time Mark had seen Gary clean shaven, he believed him. It even looked as though he’d put some product in his hair. The blue shirt he wore was loose-fitting and Mark wished he’d worn a tighter one, especially around his chest area, but Gary always seemed a bit self-conscious about his weight. Mark thought it made him look like a teddy bear. The colour itself made his eyes pop out, so there was an advantage to wearing it. Sometimes his eyes looked grey and others green, but today it was a light, bright blue, and Mark wanted to press a kiss to his smooth cheek, just to see how it felt. He resisted the urge, though.

Gary liked his comforts, from the looks of it, but judging by some of Gary’s decisions while pointing out shirts and trousers for Mark’s approval, he didn’t have as bad an eye for fashion as he let on. Granted, it could be refined, but he either had an innate knack for colours and cuts, or he knew and chose to pretend he didn’t and ignored it. Perhaps he preferred comfort over looks, or his self-esteem wouldn’t allow for dressing up. It wasn’t uncommon; when people didn’t feel good about themselves, they didn’t dress the part. When Mark felt down in the dumps, he didn’t spend as much time putting together an outfit or do his hair. He kept his hair short, because it was easier to manage, and tended to blend into the crowd. He never intentionally did it, but when looking over photographs during rough times he saw it clearly.

Gary gravitated towards grey and beige often, even if he eyed maroons and often reached for dark blues before hesitating and going for a safer, blander choice. Mark wouldn’t call him on it because he wasn’t an arsehole, but he nudged Gary in the direction of the brighter colours that Gary had veered towards in the first place. The first few times Gary looked pleasantly surprised, but after awhile he smiled knowingly and nodded at Mark. Soon enough he stopped hesitating.

After that, Mark worked on getting Gary to actually buy clothes in his size, and not the baggier, larger versions. Gary wasn’t much taller than him and even if he was noticeably overweight, he was likely just over two hundred pounds. For his age, that was average. Buying two sizes too large served only to dwarf him and hang off his shoulders oddly, which actually made him look heavier than he really was.

After they’d finally picked a few options, getting Gary to wear the trousers and show Mark wasn’t a problem. It was trying on the shirts, however, that took time. At first Gary just wanted to buy them without even bothering to see how they looked. When Mark convinced him to actually make sure they looked as good on him as they’d pictured, Gary had tried them on in the fitting room, but hadn’t come out to show Mark, instead saying they all looked better on the hanger, lips pursed and cheeks red.

“Now, now, I said I’d help you pick, so get back in there and model them for me.”

Granted, the green shirt’s shade was too bright so it made Gary look a bit ill and the white one was too tight around the shoulders and had a boxy shape and it didn’t suit Gary’s frame at all, so maybe he was right.

“Told you I looked like shit,” Gary called from inside the fitting room. 

“No, Gaz, _they_ did, it’s not you.”

Whatever Gary grumbled in response wasn’t loud enough for Mark to decipher.

“He’s a bit of a grump, isn’t he?” the lady behind the fitting area counter said.

He knew she was trying to make small talk, and she was right. Gary was being grumpy. Mark’s lips pursed and his hackles raised despite that, and judging by the fact she quickly looked away, his expression must’ve been unpleasant. That only made him feel guilty, but in his defence, it was rude of her to talk about one of her customers to his friend anyway.

“This looks horrible too, I think I’ll just leave.”

“C’mon Gaz, come out and model it for me.”

It took a few seconds, but just as Mark thought Gary must’ve decided to ignore him and take it off anyway, he stepped out, cheeks pink and looking around the store instead of at Mark, taking small, stiff steps.

The stirring in Mark’s chest had nothing to do with the irritation or leftover guilt.

“Wow,” he breathed.

“See? I look stupid.” Gary turned to go back into the fitting room.

“Wait, no. No you don’t.” Gary froze, but probably only because Mark had rushed to him. “You look great.”

Gary looked downward. “I do?”

“Just--if you don’t mind--” Mark reached forward hesitantly, but waited for Gary to nod before stepping right into his personal space. He pulled free the top button. “You don’t need to button it all the way up, Gaz. You’re not a choirgirl. Besides your chest is, um.” Mark didn’t want to finish the sentence. Considering that Gary smiled briefly before Mark focused on the button he was unnecessarily fingering, he knew what he meant. “Don’t really need to do this one up, either.” He undid the second button and smiled, moving his focus from the button to his eyes.

“So I look good then?” he asked, quietly and in an octave deeper than normally. Mark had previously confused it for flirting, but now knew it was simply Gary’s ‘serious voice.’ Though the fact they stood inches from each other and Mark’s hands smoothed down Gary’s shirt, right over his chest, it was difficult to differentiate between the two.

Maroon really brought out Gary’s eyes, and it more than flattered his skin tone. “It’s a good thing you’re straight ‘cause if you weren’t I’d climb you like a tree.”

Gary brushed Mark’s fringe from his eyes. “C’mon now, you’d do that regardless of what I wear.”

He still used that same voice, and Mark became suddenly aware of the fact the fitting room attendant’s eyes were boring right through them.

He stepped away--not too much, but it felt like a mile between them--and swatted Gary’s arm playfully. “I should’ve never told you I fancied you, now you’re gonna tease me.” It didn’t feel like teasing; it felt like flirting. If that were the case though, why would Gary have said he was straight? Was he closeted? After the texts from last night, he couldn’t help but wonder, but maybe he was simply hoping too much.

“Well that’s what friends do, isn’t it? Tease each other?”

Or, and this was much more likely, that was Gary’s way of being friendly. Mark would’ve preferred it without the teasing but then again, how else would someone handle a same sex crush when they weren’t interested? At least he hadn’t ever fancied Rob--god knew how embarrassing that could’ve been. Rob playfully flirted with him all the time, and he was straight. He supposed he’d rather be treated the same as he had been before letting Gary know of his feelings than differently.

Gary tried on and showed off the next shirt without hesitation. It was a shirt that was meant to look as though he’d put a sweater vest over one of his own, although it came together that way and was in one piece. The undershirt was a soft pink, so muted that it was closer to white, and the sweater vest portion was a light grey with pale blue trimming. Gary looked gorgeous in it, and more than that he’d walked out of the fitting room with a grin, which was the first time that had happened since they’d started shopping.

With two trousers and two new shirts, Gary decided he was done for the day and that he needed to pay.

“Hey,” someone said, stopping them before they could leave the store. The woman stopping them seemed to be in her thirties, possibly forties. Gary gave him a sympathetic wince. Mark just shrugged at him, and smiled pleasantly in her direction. “Aren’t you Gary Barlow?” She looked right at Gary, completely ignoring Mark, and he let out a sigh of relief. He was happy she hadn’t recognised him, but he was also glad that someone was giving Gary the attention he deserved.

“What?” He sounded as surprised as she did. “Oh right, I am actually,” he amended, less stunned-sounding and with a smile on his face.

“You probably get this all the time, but I really love your music. I really liked that one song, uh . . . Rule the World? It’s beautiful.”

Even though Mark didn’t remember Gary having any song by that name, a whir in the back of his head started. Mark had written something a long time ago named that but he hadn’t ever recorded it. Gary’s brow furrowed and he reared his head back. The woman noticed his expression and then looked at Mark, as if he could help her, and then back at Gary, whose lips formed a tiny O, the way everyone’s did what about to make a W sound. After a few blinks, he chuckled and smiled. “Right, yeah. I never get stopped for that one. Thank you.”

She grinned and Gary offered the hand not holding the bag. She shook his hand and thanked him, he thanked her again, and she finally left, after another excited expression of thanks and an overly polite goodbye. Gary watched her retreat, intensely focused on her, and Mark wondered if he thought she was attractive. He wouldn’t say he was jealous, but he was a little let down.

They finally turned back to the exit, the rain coming down against the glass of the doors. “That’s the first time someone’s confused me for Chris Martin. But at least Viva La Vida is a good song, yeah?”

Mark laughed the whole way out.

* * *

How they ended up parked in front of his flat with the radio turned low talking for more than two hours he didn’t know, but they had and Mark didn’t want it to end.

“. . . so then she says; ‘Oh, he’s a bit of a grump isn’t he’ and acts surprised I gave her a dirty look!”

Gary’s loud, strange laughter filled the car, but he didn’t try to muffle or hide or alter it, just let loose. He couldn’t help but join, not only because the story was funnier in retrospect but because Gary’s laughter was infectious.

There was something intimate about sitting in the passenger seat of Gary’s car, angled towards him and laughing while I Need You To Turn To played on the iPod with rain washing down the windscreen and twisting the world around him for the first time since June.

“But really I do feel awful about that. She looked so traumatised.”

“Oh c’mon Mark, she called me a grump to your face. She knew we were shopping together, she had to’ve assumed we were friends. Why would anyone say that to a friend and expect him to agree?”

Their chuckles subsided until they were both quiet, staring at each other. The cloud cover darkened the sky enough already, but it was also late in the evening. The silhouette of the water reflected on Gary’s face. If Mark still wrote music, he’d write about this moment; of only being able to see Gary clearly with shadows of racing raindrops reflecting off his skin; the only solid thing in his misshapen life.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it felt full and heavy anyway.

“I should probably get going,” Mark said, two hours later than he should’ve.

“Yeah, it is gettin’ late.”

Mark moved in and Gary didn’t hesitate to welcome the hug; he hadn’t hesitated earlier, either, when Mark had greeted him. Of course, the ones they shared this morning had been brief without any moment of lingering afterwards. Now, though, Mark had a difficult time letting go. Gary was soft and warm, with his now-smooth cheek sliding against his. The dim lighting and soft patter of rain lulling along with Elton’s quiet voice from the radio made it all the harder, especially as Gary’s large hand kept rubbing up and down his back and whatever cologne or aftershave he’d used washed over Mark in waves.

When he finally did pull away from Gary, which was a shorter amount of time than it felt, he lingered inches from Gary’s face. “It was fun, Gaz.”

“It was.” One of Gary’s hands stuck to his side, as if he hadn’t yet pulled from the hug.

Mark kissed his cheek. It felt smoother on his lips than it had against the side of his face, and he wondered how smooth his mouth was. He pulled away as soon as his lips left his skin because lingering briefly after a hug could be overlooked, but this couldn’t. Kissing his cheek was probably pushing too far anyway, considering he had asked him out recently so Gary knew how he felt and hadn’t hesitated to remain friends. He shouldn’t give him a reason.

“We should do it again sometime,” Gary suggested as Mark opened the car door.

“We should. Thanks again.”

He shut the car door and hurried to his flat, fruitlessly shielding his face from the rain with his palm. He waited until he was in his dry apartment before he allowed himself to take comfort in his breathlessness and butterflies, but promised himself he wouldn’t revel in it anymore.


	7. I Don't Ever Want To Let You Go

As he had last week, Gary asked to be seated in Mark’s area. Sandy didn’t work Wednesdays and even if they weren’t friends, she did occasionally tell him about her life though he refrained from saying much about his. So even if Mark didn’t work Monday he still showed up and sat in her area. If he changed his schedule to always sit where Mark served it might be a little cruel, or feel that way to her, so he’d probably sit in hers on Friday, too. However, Carlo had never really spent any extra time talking to Gary, so he doubted he cared. It made sense, then, that Wednesdays should be the day he sat in Mark’s area.

After the great time they’d had, despite the depressing detour during tea and the brief hiccup while he’d been trying on clothes, Gary wasn’t at all surprised that he’d woken with the vague memories of a dream involving Mark straddling him in the driver’s seat, skin on skin and denim against denim. Their hug and Mark’s kiss to his cheek had probably more than fuelled his imagination last night, but he’d be lying if he tried to say that he hadn’t been dreaming about Mark more and more as time went on. Pressing kisses through car windows, snogging in the driver’s seat in the rain, and performing on stage together in front of thousands after riding and singing atop an elephant was one thing when it was only occasionally, but they were getting more frequent and varied; doing everyday tasks together or even arguing took it a step further from lust, and the path his brain often took was imagining what it would’ve been like had he been accepted into Take That. Those sort of thoughts led straight into the want of domesticity and that wasn’t going to go away unless he stopped seeing Mark altogether. 

So he was going to stop resisting.

He was in his forties and he was financially secure, had his own house, and as difficult as it would be to act as if Mum and Ian’s thoughts didn’t phase him, Mark was right. He shouldn’t restrict his life for their comfort. All repressing had ever done was cause him to lose a stable relationship and more than a few nights’ sleep. He didn’t want to throw himself into it headlong, though. He was going to have to take small steps, but he was done backing away from it entirely. The idea of spending his life this way, alone in his home, hoping that each time Ian and Mum called it wasn’t them talking about some woman they thought he’d get along with, dreaming about a male friend and trying to get as close to him as possible without actually having to make a legitimate move? How long would Mark deal with that before he’d get tired of the games and leave? So he was done playing.

Mark caught his eyes before he’d made it to his table. Mark’s grin made Gary smile too, and the fact Mark walked faster towards him made Gary more positive he was making the right decision.

“How you liking your new shoes?”

Mark rocked back on his heels and looked downward briefly. “Oh they’re great. Really worth what I paid for ‘em.” 

A baby cried, shrieked more like it, a few tables down from them. Mark turned his head towards it, stared at it as it wailed, face turning a bright red--though, Gary supposed, it was more of a toddler than a baby, whatever gender it was--while the mother tried to shush it while smiling around the diner uncomfortably. Mark’s expression wasn’t one of annoyance, though.

“Mark?”

Mark turned back to him and blinked, shaking his head. “Sorry about that, I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

“It’s all right. Um, look, I was wond--”

“Hey Mark,” Carlo interrupted, stepping right beside the booth and pointing over his shoulder. Jeannie stood where he was pointing, behind the counter and beside a hallway he assumed led into the kitchen. “Jeannie said she needed to see you.”

Mark’s frown twisted into Gary’s chest unpleasantly. “I’ll be right back okay Gaz?” The smile he flashed at him didn’t ease the foreboding.

Mark left and Carlo took his spot. “So did you want your usual?”

Gary’s eyes tracked Mark until Jeannie, with a hand on his arm, led him out of sight, somewhere down the hallway. He looked back at Carlo, whose smile looked as painted as a politician’s. “Er, sorry. I was um. Distracted. Yeah, I’ll have my usual.”

Carlo ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He rubbed the back of his head and the looked behind him, where Jeannie had been, before leaning a bit towards Gary. “Do you like Mark?”

“We’re friends, yes.”

“I didn’t mean . . . .” Gary raised his eyebrows. Carlo cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to offend you or anything, but Jeannie doesn’t . . . .” Gary raised his eyebrows even more and pursed his lips. He tapped his fingers against the table, which Carlo stared at before clearing his throat and meeting Gary’s eyes again. “Look, in my opinion, maybe you shouldn’t--”

“Well I didn’t ask your opinion Carlo.”

It was as if Gary had smacked Carlo straight across the face. He wasn’t positive what Carlo had been trying to say, but he knew that it wasn’t anything he wanted to hear. Carlo blinked and Gary could see a blush beneath his dark olive cheeks. They locked eyes, and Carlo’s dark ones reflected the annoyance Gary wasn’t bothering to hide.

“You’re not doing Mark any favours,” Carlo snapped and curled his upper lip into a snarl. “I’ll be back with your food.”

He stormed off and Gary had half a mind to follow suit. Instead he fiddled with his silverware and tapped the table with his fingers. When he saw Mark leaving the hallway, Mark caught his eyes and looked about as pleased as Gary felt. He didn’t approach Gary’s table, but he went to the other tables in the area.

Carlo gave him his food without a word, and didn’t offer to give him a refill once. Though Mark didn’t avoid Gary’s eye contact and Gary tried to meet his eyes as much as possible, he didn’t come to Gary’s side, though from his expression he was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t read minds.

It didn’t take long for Gary to figure out that Mark wasn’t going to be his server anymore, and he doubted it was his choice. He debated not leaving a tip, but he left one anyway.

He stomped his way home and slammed the door.

For the first time in a long while, he took his frustrations out on the piano, playing a melody that nobody had heard but him, and one that wasn’t particularly suited for an angry mood--but then again, nothing Gary ever wrote was.

* * *

Mark sat in the chair beside the microwave in the break room. He refused to act as if he were in a good mood. Jeannie sat by Sandy, angled away from Mark so that he could only see her back. He glared at it anyway, arms folders tightly while he sunk lower in his seat while they talked, as casual as ever, with Sandy scribbling on a receipt as usual.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know Billie Piper was a pop star before _Doctor Who,”_ Sandy said, shaking her head, her brunette fringe curtaining her eyes.

“Well I was born in New York.”

“Oh you were? Was it nice there?”

“I liked it. I moved to Nelson in 2000 and then I tried me hand at London in 2003 for a few years. Obviously it didn’t pan out.”

“Must be nice. I’ve lived here me whole life.”

Mark checked the time on his phone; he’d been on break five minutes and already he was ready to start shouting.

How dare she sit there and act sociable and nice, when she wasn’t?

Mark stood from the chair and stomped out of the break room, slamming the back door. He didn’t care if he was being childish; he wanted her to know how angry he was, because this was ridiculous.

He stormed past his car, instead heading towards the pavement, irritation and anger fuelling each footstep. He needed to be away from his workplace, needed to be away from _her._

“We need to have a little chitchat,” she’d said, leading him to the break room. The server whose named he could never remember had been pouring coffee, back facing them of course so he couldn’t see his nametag. “Carlo tells me last Wednesday Gary sat in your area.”

As if that should’ve mattered. It didn’t. Why the hell did it matter where he chose to sit? Mark quickened his pace.

“He’s sittin’ there again today, I see.”

So what if he had? It was then Mark knew what she was going to say; he’d felt his stomach drop. She’d forced her eyes wide and a cute smile on her face, as if she were an innocent teen girl. As if talking to him sweetly would lessen the blow.

“It’s just that I worry about you spending more time on him than the others in your area.” Her voice had been gentle and sweet, and fucking condescending. As if Mark were some teenager texting his friend all day when he should’ve been working, making googly eyes at him instead of getting refills. He’d told her that he hadn’t, that he’d been just as observant as before and that it didn’t interfere with his work, but; “It’s a pre-emptive measure, yeah? Just nippin’ it in the bud, as you do.”

Mark clenched his teeth while he turned down the road, clenching his fists. He’d looked at the other server then; said that he served his girlfriend when she came in and there weren’t any issues, so why--

“We’re not discussing him, we’re discussing you.” She’d dropped the sweet and cute act. “His girlfriend doesn’t come in three times a week, either. You’re not to serve Gary when he comes in. That’s final.”

He’d wanted to argue. To tell her that he wasn’t stupid, he knew very well that she didn’t like Gary for whatever pathetic reason and because they were friends, in her attempt to be a bitch to Gary she was hurting Mark in the process. Another part of him wanted to point out she never cared that Sandy spent more time on Gary than anyone else because she fancied him, and even if Jeannie wasn’t fond of him she never once tried to nip _that_ in the bud. Granted, she never encouraged Sandy to give Gary her number the way everyone else (Mark included) had, but she wasn’t pulling Sandy away. He’d wanted to put his foot down and tell her exactly why she was wrong.

But speaking out hadn’t ever been his strongest quality. He hadn’t spoke out in Take That, and he wasn’t going to speak out now. Servers were a dime a dozen, and he needed the job more than she needed him. She’d been kind enough to offer him the job on the fly and except when Gary was involved she’d never been rude to him, so it wasn’t worth it. 

Mark wasn’t worth it.

He stopped in front of Gary’s door, his feet taking him there on their own. It was stupid and childish and probably weird that he’d gone straight here when he could’ve called him, but he hadn’t meant to; he’d just meant to walk out his anger. Gary did live so close, though, and he was his friend; his only friend, really, outside of Rob.

He knocked. He stuffed his hands in his pockets while he waited.

The door opened and Gary blinked at him. “Mark,” he breathed as a greeting. “Are you okay? Did you wanna come in?”

“Thanks.”

Mark went straight to the living room. The piano had the keys visible and the bench was in front and askew; he must’ve been playing. Gary went to it and closed the lid and pushed the bench underneath. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I interrupted your playing.”

“It’s fine, I play all the time. Now what’s wrong?”

He ran his hand through his hair. Now that he stood in Gary’s living room, about to retell what had happened, the whole situation felt silly. He was forty-one for God’s sake; was he really about to complain to Gary about his manager not wanting him to serve Gary in fear it would affect work performance?

Yes. Yes he was.

“Jeannie said I couldn’t be your server anymore, ‘cause I might possibly be distracted while you’re there.”

“What?”

“I know, it’s stupid, I shouldn’t care but--”

“It’s not stupid, she’s being a bitch. What, because we actually, what, hang out now and again? You know this isn’t about you bein’ distracted right? This is about her not likin’ me, she’s _never_ liked me.”

Mark threw his hands in the air, moving towards Gary. “I know! She doesn’t care when Sandy spends fifteen minutes makin’ googly eyes and giggling with you, does she? And I don’t care! I don’t mind, I don’t care that she likes you, that’s fine, it’s not _her_ I’m angry at! Of course, I try to tell Jeannie that--that this other server, when his girlfriend comes in, she doesn’t distract him and he serves her every time!”

Gary pointed at Mark and waggled his finger. “Ah, but look: his girlfriend’s not me. And Sandy and I, we don’t spend any time outside of work together, if we did I’m sure she’d have a problem. This is bullshit.” Gary planted his hands on his hips, lips a tight line and he shook his head. “Carlo was trying to tell me as much, I think. I snapped at him and I shouldn’t’ve; said I was making things difficult for you.”

Mark let out a long, harsh sigh, then clenched his teeth together. “It shouldn’t be like this, Gaz. She’s in the wrong. I should’ve--” He cut himself off and shook his head, throwing his hands in the air. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“I should’ve said something! But I just stood there, like fucking always. I never say anything, Gaz! I just stand there!” Tears burned at the corner of his lids and he turned away, wiping them away. He wasn’t about to cry over this, and not in front of Gary. “Always the quiet one, I never--I never said anything all those times Nigel--with Howard--” His throat closed up. His eyes burned and his vision blurred. His chest tightened and hot tears slipped down his face.

No, he wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t going to do this in front of Gary and he wasn’t going to go back to work with a red, splotchy face. “Oh, this is stupid,” he murmured, wiping at his cheeks and walking away from Gary. Wherever that was he didn’t know, just _away._

Gary’s large hand was at his shoulder, squeezing it. “Mark.”

He shut his eyes tightly and tried to swallow through his closed off throat. He forced himself to turn to Gary, though he couldn’t look him in the face. He settled for his chin. Gary put a hand on each arm, as if anchoring him to the floor.

“Okay, so it’s obvious you’ve got more on your mind than this . . . _thing_ with Jeannie.” Mark tilted his head down, so that he looked at Gary’s chest instead. “Look, what Howard did . . . it’s what _he_ did. You can’t blame yourself, all right?”

“It’s not that. It’s just everything.”

“Hey, look at me.” Mark turned his head up and met Gary’s eyes. Tears blocked his vision still so he couldn’t quite make out Gary’s expression. “Why don’t I get you something to eat, maybe some tea, and we can . . . I dunno, talk about it. If you want.”

Mark nodded and wiped at his eyes. “Yeah that might be good.”

Gary let go of his arms and headed towards the kitchen.

Mark sat on the sofa in silence. The wet streaks down his cheeks probably felt worse than they looked, but he was embarrassed anyway. The problem was that he couldn’t ever be upset at one thing; he had to be upset at everything all at once. If he was angry because the hot water went out in his flat, he had to start ruminating on how he was poor and a complete has been; that he hadn’t once mattered in the long run, and that it would’ve been better off to have not mattered at all, so he wouldn’t have known what he was missing out on when people stopped giving a shit. He could smack himself for going to Gary because he was feeling a bit emotional; at least Gary had understood.

“What time do you have to be back to work?”

“Oh, um.” He reached into his pocket and pulled free his phone. “In forty minutes. Sorry, I feel so awful, showing up like this.”

“Don’t apologise. What’re friends for?”

Mark pressed his forehead into his palm and let the quietness of the living room wash over him. He tried to clear his mind and relax his muscles; the whole Zen thing had been quite a large part of his life years ago and though he had kept up with it for the most part, he wasn’t always so good at thinking it worked. Meditation and finding solace in the beauty of all things worked much better when his life hadn’t been a pit of shit. More often than not, nowadays all it led to was obsessing over everything that he hated about himself and his life in a dark room rather than finding some sort of peace.

He felt Gary sit by him so he pulled his face from his hand. “I had jam but I’m out of bread, so . . . .” Gary gestured at a plate of biscuits on the coffee table.

“There’s a joke in there somewhere,” Mark said, though he couldn’t think of what it would be because there wasn’t much funny about jam and bread. 

He took a biscuit, but didn’t eat it. He held it in his hands and turned it. Gary ate his, though, and sat there, quietly chewing. He didn’t ask Mark to speak, or urge him to say anything. Finally, he nodded and let out a sigh. “I’m forty-one. I thought by now I’d--and I know I have time, and I know about Elton, but I just thought I’d have kids. Thought I’d be doing something with my life, that I’d have at least one successful album under me belt. That I wouldn’t be working at a shit diner for scraps.”

Gary still didn’t say anything. Perhaps he didn’t know what there was to say or maybe he thought Mark was being an idiot.

“It’s stupid, I know. To make things worse, I--I had a dream last night that I had a little girl. She was only one or so, but I loved her so much. And it was so vivid and real and when I woke up . . . and then this shit with Jeannie. I’ve got one good thing going in my life and Jeannie’s trying to--” Calling Gary the one good thing in his life was embarrassing. He shook his head at his biscuit. “Sayin’ it out loud kinda makes it sound pathetic, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Gary’s voice was soft; quiet. Mark looked at him, but Gary was looking downward with his brows furrowed.

Mark nibbled at the biscuit, focusing on the plate while he thought over what he’d said. It shouldn’t bother him, it was just a dream, but after the day he had . . . . Reasonable arguments he could’ve made to Jeannie started forming, far too late, despite how really unimportant Gary’s seating arrangement was. Scathing insults he could’ve shouted at the expense of his job (and that he would never say anyway; he wasn‘t that cruel) danced on the tip of his tongue. Doing either of those would’ve been pointless anyway because she was basing her decision on her dislike of Gary, not any other reason, and all it would‘ve accomplished was him losing a job. So in the end it was for the best he hadn’t said anything, but that didn’t calm his nerves any. A job that he wasn’t particularly attached to, but still. He needed it. Going back to his flat after work wasn’t anything he took solace from, either. What was there about it to cherish? Sleeping fitfully while he heard every noise the neighbours made through the thin walls, so he could wake up, still tired, and go back to work? He was living off tips and even if nobody ever talked about it, he made far more than the other servers and judging by Carlo’s occasional passive comments, nobody was happy about it. It still wasn’t enough to get him out of his shit flat, though, where he woke with the imagined sounds of his child laughing in his ears and the realisation that he might not ever get it plagued him. And now, now he was spending his lunch break on the sofa of a straight man he fancied blathering on about work drama and dreams--

The tea kettle went off, the high pitched whistle jerking Mark out of his thoughts.

Gary went to the kitchen and returned with two mugs of tea, steam rising in curving wisps. Mark held the mug in his hands. The warmth crept up his arms and he let out a breath, his shoulders sagging.

“I’m not happy.”

Mark hadn’t allowed himself to say it out loud, or even really think the words before. It was something he felt, though; felt deep in his bones, carving into every smile he forced and filling his lungs with each nicotine-soaked fag he sucked into his body. He’d just never given the feelings a sentence.

“Yeah.” Whether Gary said it out of acceptance or agreement didn’t matter. It just meant the world he’d said it.

They drank their tea in silence. It was comforting, sitting on a sofa drinking better tea than he could ever make himself and eating biscuits beside Gary. The hominess was just what he’d needed, maybe. He hadn’t felt that in a long while.

* * *

They hadn’t talked the rest of his visit. After their tea, Gary had switched on the television. He changed it to a cooking show, which he found strange because Gary had once told him he didn’t really like eating in, and Mark had watched it with him. Sitting on the sofa quietly watching TV together had actually been nice, and even if the biscuits weren’t normally what he’d consider a good lunch, it made him feel a bit like a little kid again, so he didn’t mind.

Gary had offered him a ride back to work so Mark wouldn’t have to walk, even though it wasn’t far. He’d accepted, though, because he liked being able to sit with Gary alone in his living room for a few extra minutes. After all, Gary hadn’t brushed off his emotions and it wasn’t as if he was in that much of a hurry to make it back.

When they pulled into the car park a few minutes early, Mark couldn’t help but sigh at how many more cars there were now than when he left. “Caught a pap in here the other day. Felt like such shit. Worked for Daily Mail, of course.”

“Oh Christ.”

“Did a whole piece on me, on how pathetic I was and how good ol’ fashionable me was stuck in this.” He gestured at his uniform and shook his head. “They titled it ‘How the Mighty Fall’ of course, because nobody remembers that album unless they’re gonna make a pun over it.”

“I remember it. That’s your best one.” Gary spoke factually and easily; he wasn’t trying to make him feel better, he was just stating something. It was nice to know that he meant what he said. “Once I had the title ‘A Million Biscuits Later’ with a picture of me eating someplace in Cheshire. Literary genius, that. Can I ask you something?” 

“What?”

“Who’s Believe in the Boogie about?”

“Oh, um. No one, really. It’s sort of . . . difficult, er. I just woke up, one day, you know? Song was playing in my head constantly. Wish there was something more to it than that, but it had been plaguing me, really, ‘til I wrote it. In my dreams, while I was off cooking or something. Loads think it’s about Rob, but it’s not. Sorry, I probably ruined it for you, though.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Same thing happens to me, actually.”

“Thanks for the ride back.” Gary nodded at him and smiled. Mark put his hand on the handle to open the door, but froze. “Hey Gaz?”

“Hmm?”

“What were you going to say? Before Carlo interrupted, this morning.”

“Oh um.” He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled unevenly at Mark. “I wanted to know if you wanted to come with me to London, is all.”

Mark froze. Of course he wanted to go, but London was somewhere between three and a half and four hours away. He wanted to ask when but also why, and why him specifically, and he wanted to know if Gary had been flirting with him over text the other day, and flirting with him yesterday, but he had said he was straight so obviously, _obviously_ he wasn’t, and yet he was asking Mark to go on a vacation with him, after asking him to go shopping and singing with him last week in his studio. Was he overcompensating because he didn’t want to come off uncomfortable around Mark? 

Gary looked away and cleared his throat, staring out the windscreen as if he were focusing on driving. “It’s all right if you can’t come, it’s nothing--”

“I want to.” He shifted and weighed his next words carefully. “I’d love to, really.”

“But?” Gary urged, eyebrows raised.

Mark didn’t quite know how to say the next part without making it awkward, or uncomfortable, and he had to get back into work. “But . . . .” he began, slowly, and his mind stopped working. But I like you? But I’m confused about your intentions? If he asked him what he felt, would Gary simply be annoyed because he had already told him? Would he accuse Mark of seeing things and forcing something that wasn’t there? The only reason Mark was even considering, rather than just flatly accepting without any hesitation, was because he had feelings for him, feelings that Gary apparently couldn’t return, and yet it often felt as though Gary _did._ And maybe until Mark could accept that Gary was straight, maybe he shouldn’t. He really ought to trust that Gary wouldn’t lie to him, but . . . .

Actually, there was no but.

Gary was straight. He was friendly, that was all, and he had to accept that.

“But I don’t . . . know . . . when.”

Gary smiled. “Well I was thinkin’ driving up Sunday after you get off work. We’d have to get a hotel, and I was thinking about spending all Monday there and comin’ home Tuesday. Of course if you can’t, I understand, or if you want to come home early--”

“No that’s great, really. I’d . . . I’d really like that. But um, I have to get back to work. We can talk about this later?”

“Of course. If you wanted you could come by after work and talk then you can. We could sing a bit, too, if we have time.”

“Sounds great. I’ll drive to your place after work?” Gary nodded excitedly and Mark couldn’t help but smile. “See you later, then.”

He avoided looking at Jeannie when he went in through the break room door. Although he was much calmer than he had been when he left, a spark of irritation ignited when he walked in to see she was still there. Even if it didn’t burst into a full on flame of annoyance, the spark intensified when he heard footsteps behind him while he went to the time clock.

“Where’d you go?”

“For a walk.” He refused to look at her and instead watched the time. He still had a minute left.

It took ten seconds of silence before he heard her footsteps leave.


	8. In Their Houses There Will Be

Despite the imminent evening with Gary, Mark’s day wasn’t getting any better. It wasn’t busier than normal and the customers weren’t being rude, but Mark spilled someone’s tray all down his front. They completely understood and he only needed to get refills for their drinks, but even though his shirt was maroon and his trousers black, the stain from the coffee and orange juice was visible. He also smelled like an unpleasant combination of both. Carlo scowled at him every time they happened to be near each other, and while it was because of Gary’s attitude this morning, that wasn’t Mark’s fault and to be honest Gary deserved to say what he had. Granted, Carlo was just looking out for him, but how could he expect that piece of advice to go down smoothly? In the end, that entire situation began with Jeannie, who kept giving withering looks in Mark’s direction, or giving him a sympathetic pat on the arm whenever they walked by each other. It really only irritated Mark because if she felt that bad about the whole situation, she shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Chances are she didn’t give a shit, she just wanted to act like she did hoping Mark wouldn’t be too angry with her. When he went to the loo to check his mobile, it wasn’t in his pocket, which meant he’d left it at Gary’s. Although he’d be able to grab it after work, it still pushed the irritation just a little further.

Suffice it to say, when it was the end of his shift, he was more than glad.

He wasted no time getting out of the restaurant. He pretended that he didn’t notice Jeannie walking towards him while he made his way to the exit, and he quickened his pace while he strode across the car park. He was sweaty and smelled like coffee and orange juice still, but Gary would understand--besides, he knew when Mark ended his shift and if Mark went home to change his clothes first he would think Mark forgot, seeing as he couldn’t text him. Anyway, they usually saw each other right as Mark got off work, when he was sweaty and smelled like crap, so that wouldn’t be anything new.

His car stalled the first time he turned the key, but it started the second time, which was a stroke of luck because Jeannie stepped out of the restaurant and blatantly stared right at his car.

The drive to Gary’s house wasn’t at all long and even though they’d planned him coming over after work, he still didn’t feel comfortable pulling into his garage without permission, so he pulled up alongside the curb. He sat in his seat for a second, then checked his face in the rear-view mirror. His fringe hung in front of his face awkwardly so he pushed it free, and smoothed down the hair on top because it was sticking up in all sorts of ugly angles. He sniffed the collar of his shirt; the aroma of coffee lingered but he didn’t smell the orange juice, and it had weakened somewhat, so maybe he wasn’t that bad. He opened the glove box and grabbed the extra deodorant he stashed there. He stuck his hand under his shirt to apply it and put it back. He checked his hair in the rear-view mirror again and figured it was as good as it was going to get, so he got out of his car and headed up the walk to Gary’s door.

He knocked. He smiled because talking about a vacation with his friend was exactly what he needed.

The door opened.

“Um, hi.”

Ian smiled at him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello Mark. Gary actually told us you were coming.” He opened the door wider and took a step back. Ian’s eyes slid down and then up his body; his already weak smile faltered and turned into a half-grimace.

That didn’t make him feel any better about his day or his appearance. 

“Keep going down the hall, it’s on the right.”

This was only the third time he’d been in Gary’s house, and he hadn’t really been given much of a tour. He had only been in the living room and the studio. The kitchen was across from the living room and there was a bedroom and a bathroom across the hall from the studio, though that was all upstairs. Though he’d seen Ian come from the cupboard under the stairs to take the CDs, he hadn’t ever walked past to see if there was anything.

A wide archway led into a room about half the size of Gary’s living room. Along the walls were framed awards and pictures of Gary with various celebrities. There was a fireplace with a few trophies on it, but it was against the back wall, with a sofa in front of it. A table sat in the middle of the room, and an older woman sat with her back facing the fireplace, whereas Gary sat with his back facing the wall with framed awards and pictures, so that he could see the archway. “Mark,” he greeted, grinning although it looked almost painful. “Mum and Ian came for a visit. I tried to phone you, but . . . .”

“I must’ve left it here during lunch. I hope I’m not interrupting, I could come back later--”

“Nonsense, Gary made enough for you,” their mother said.

Gary gestured at the chair across from himself. Mark sat.

Ian situated himself across from his mother. The table only fit four, one person on each side. Mark wasn’t claustrophobic, but he felt cramped anyway. Gary’s mother wore pearls and a nice sky-blue dress; it wasn’t anything fancy, but nice enough for church, and Ian wore khakis and a white polo shirt. Gary had changed his clothes from lunch and if Mark weren’t uncomfortable with the situation, he would’ve smiled. He wore the blue sweater vest with the pink undershirt he’d bought the other day.

“I would’ve gone home to change if I knew er, that we were having a dinner.”

“Oh don’t worry, you just got off from work, it’s no problem,” Gary insisted, standing from his chair. In the centre of the table were two large bowls; one had peas, the other diced carrots, and beside the bowl was a small plate with triangular cut sandwiches. He spooned vegetables onto everyone’s plate, and when Mark reached forward to grab a sandwich Gary quickly intercepted and took one to place on Mark’s plate for him instead. Gary’s smile never left his face, and Mark didn’t want to look to either his left or right because he was sure they’d be giving him disapproving stares.

When Gary sat, Mark reached for the silverware beside his plate, but Gary widened his eyes and shook his head slightly. Before Mark could figure out why he’d done it, Ian started praying.

Mark quickly folded his arms and closed his eyes. Praying during a meal wasn’t that out of the ordinary he supposed, but it had been a long, _long_ time since he’d done it. He’d known families when he was younger that had, but only during special occasions or holiday dinners. It wasn’t that Mark completely disbelieved in God and the notion of everything Christianity stood for, but the idea of praying to bless the food they were about to eat had always felt silly to him, let alone for an ordinary meal.

He said his amen when he was supposed to and opened his eyes. Gary smiled at him, though it was as forced as it had been since he’d walked into the dining room.

“The carrots could use more butter,” Ian pointed out.

“That’s how they came. I er, I put ‘em in the microwave is all, should’ve thought to add butter. It never comes with enough, does it?”

“It’s not that time consuming to boil vegetables is it?” Although Gary’s mother _sounded_ thoughtful, Gary winced and closed his eyes briefly as if she’d raised a hand to him.

The carrots and the peas were not as soft as Mark was used to, but it hadn’t really ruined the taste any. He could tell that they weren’t fresh, but he had frozen vegetables in his own freezer at the flat. If he pointed out it tasted fine to him it would probably come off as argumentative or defensive on Gary’s behalf, and he didn’t know them in the slightest, so he kept his mouth shut.

“So why is it you were coming here after work anyway Mark?” Ian smiled at him while he pushed peas around on his plate. “Were you two planning on writing some music together or . . . ?”

“Uh no, no we were . . . We’re going to London and we were . . . just going to discuss our plans, really; you know, how long we’ll be staying and what we’ll do, that sort of thing.” It wasn’t a lie, of course, but they had planned on singing together. Considering Ian was not a fan of Gary’s interest in music, it bothered Mark that he’d bring it up at all.

“Oh that’s good, it’s good of Gary to get out of the house. He rarely does these days,” his mother said, taking a drink of water.

This was going to be one long, awkward dinner.

* * *

Having Mark meet his mum hadn’t been something he’d planned on happening. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it to happen, it just hadn’t ever crossed his mind. He’d already met Ian, but sitting down and talking at length with his brother and mother was something else entirely, and without warning.

Mark was quiet. He didn’t speak unless he was asked something or being talked to by someone. Mostly he nodded along and smiled, and ate. The whole situation made Gary feel like a terrible friend, but there hadn’t been any way out of it. Every time Mark’s smiles looked stretched and his shoulders withdrew inward more, which made him look even smaller than he already was, Gary’s body tensed. His fingers tapped against the table until Mark’s eyes settled on the movement, and then he’d stopped. He made sure to keep his hands visible, but didn’t let his elbows touch the surface. His mother didn’t take kindly to improper table manners from her sons, even though as soon as she was gone he and Ian would always throw etiquette out the window.

“Is that a new shirt?” Mum asked.

“It is, actually.”

“The shirt underneath is pink.” It was difficult to tell if she was commenting on it because it looked nice, or if it was because she didn’t like it. It was always hard to tell with her, because she so often resorted to passive aggressive statements.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah I uh . . . I think it looks nice, though.”

“It’s just weird, isn’t it?” She let out a small laugh. “Pink was always a girl colour, but now we have all these feminists and this hatred for gender roles, as if there’s something wrong with it. It looks good on you though, dear.”

“Looks like something a wife would pick.” Ian laughed and shook his head, then looked at Mark briefly. Gary winced. It wasn’t even that subtle of an insinuation. “Just the other day, Lisa--she’s my wife,” he said to Mark, “picked this shirt for me, and it was horribly girly. I told her; ‘love, I’m straight, I’m not wearing this!’”

Mum and Ian laughed, and had Lisa been there she would’ve giggled along too. Gary forced a laugh, which meant he merely opened his mouth and let out a breath, but met Mark’s eyes across the table. He hoped to God Mark could see how sorry he was for the comment and that he really, truly liked the shirt. He wouldn’t have worn it if he hadn’t. It was Mark who’d picked it, and it really did look nice.

Even if he was done with pulling away from Mark and forcing his feelings into the pit of his stomach, that didn’t mean he was ready to proudly wear his sexuality on his sleeve. He worried he looked gay, he hated that it worried him in the first place, and he wished the dinner would end soon.

“One of these days we’ll have to give Mark ample time to change before dinner. I feel so over-dressed, I’m sorry about that dear,” Mum said, smiling in Mark’s direction.

Mark shrugged with a casual smile. “It’s all right. You all look great, really. I feel like a prat, wandering in with coffee stains. Busy day at work.”

“And what do you do?”

“I’m a waiter.” 

Although Gary had thought being quiet would’ve been preferable to the double-sided comments from before, the silence that stretched on was even more awkward. He caught Mum meeting Ian’s eyes with a twisted half-smile. Mum had always said that being a waiter was a job for teenagers, not adults; same with fast food employees. Why couldn’t these adults have their lives together by now? Did they waste their youth being lazy? They thought Gary was lazy too, even if they’d never come right out and say it bluntly. Even if he had the money to live without work, he should work anyway. They didn’t see writing music reviews for pocket change as true employment, and they hadn’t seen being in the music industry as real employment either. It was always about how when he got older, he could really focus on what really matters, and this music thing is wonderful for now, but what was he going to _do_ with his life?

“Oh that must be nice, something low key,” she said politely with a charming smile on her face. “In this economy, you have to take what you can until something better comes along.”

“That’s the plan.”

His mother nodded and shared a look with Ian; this time, though, it was a pleasant expression, not a disdainful one. Mark had answered the way she wanted, then. Gary let out a small sigh of relief.

“Well, I’m glad that you could eat dinner with us, Mark. Though I was a bit surprised when you walked in--Gary just said he was expecting company, so I was expecting a girl. But it is so nice to meet a friend of his.” 

“Oh, I figured it was him. I’ve met him before. Just recently actually.” Ian took a bite of the last bit of his sandwich. They were now all officially done eating, as their plates were empty.

Mum narrowed her eyes at Mark and hummed. “I think we’ve met before too, though, now that I think about it. You seem really familiar to me.”

Mark shifted in his seat, eyes trained on his water. He traced the lip of the glass with his finger. “I was in a band in the nineties, Take That.”

Whenever Take That was mentioned, his family always gave him a quick glance, as if gauging his reaction. When he had been denied, there had been the obligatory; “Oh they won’t ever go anywhere.” After they hit the radio and the charts, it was; “They’ll last a few months and die out.” When they lasted a few years, it was; “Well you wouldn’t want to be a part of such a shit band anyway.” Of course the music hadn’t been anywhere near his parents’ taste in music, nor Ian’s, and it wouldn’t have been even if he had been in it. Of course, along with the comments that were meant to make him feel better, they peppered everything with; “Well music isn’t a lifelong career, so when this ends you’ll have something better,” and “You wouldn’t want to be in a band for five years, because how else can you focus on getting a family?” Maybe they thought it made him feel better. It didn’t, though. Take That had always been a source of pain for him and even when he had his own career, they hadn’t been enthusiastic over it. Sure they’d supported him, but in the way they had supported Ian when he wanted to be a cowboy and when Gary had had that phase when he thought he was Captain Kirk and wouldn’t answer to anything but Captain.

He could feel their eyes on him and kept his eyes trained on Mark with his best interested expression, because it was either that or staring at his plate and they’d judge that. Ian had been kind enough to leave the subject alone the last time he’d dropped by, so he hoped he would now, too.

“Oh, I wasn’t really into that band much, no offence,” Mum said. “They were always just a bit too French for my liking.”

Gary pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead.

“Er, French?”

“You know. A bit . . . homosexual.”

Gary pulled his face from his hand because if he kept it there longer, they’d notice. His cheeks were probably red, though, so maybe it was pointless trying to hide how uncomfortable he was.

“That might’ve been my fault, really. I’m gay, you see.”

Mark’s pleasant smile and direct eye contact with his mother scared Gary, but sent him whirling straight into breathlessness. He was braver than Gary could ever be, and the corner of his mouth curved up even though his heart thumped quicker in fear. Ian and Mum would think it strange that he was friends with a gay man and going to London for three days with him, as they’d thought it strange he had such a focus on Elton. They might talk. Share glances. Suspect.

Let them.

Gary planned on flirting with Mark in London (or at least, he wasn’t going to restrain himself from it). If all went according to plan, them wondering might make the consequences of their weekend together easier. As terrifying as it was, he was going to have to come out eventually, whether or not Mark responded to his flirtation . Which was a step forward from before, when he’d planned on never having to deal with that at all.

Mark sitting across from him, a half-triumphant, half-ironic smirk on his face, staring down his mother and letting her know he was gay, with a stained maroon shirt, could possibly be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Oh. Oh good, good. I have gay friends.” His mother sounded completely off-guard. When Gary turned to see her expression, it matched her voice. She caught Gary’s eyes and then quickly looked at her plate.

“I think Lisa might’ve mentioned that.” Ian’s voice was low and when Gary turned to see him, he was carefully folding his napkin, head bowed and eyes furrowed. “When I saw you last, I mean. She said you’d come out in the nineties?”

Gary’s heart plummeted straight into his stomach. Had he gone home and talked to Lisa about Mark being in Gary’s home? Why had Mark’s sexuality come up? Even if Gary had recently, as in within the last twenty-four hours, come to accept that he was going to tell them he was gay eventually, that didn’t mean he was ready for it to happen _right now._ And if Ian had always known, hiding it for years, his whole life, was a fucking _waste_ and he’d gone through years of fear for no reason.

“I think I should get these dishes in the sink,” Gary blurted before the conversation could be furthered. He was scared and excited and proud of Mark and awkward all at the same time, and if he didn’t remove himself from the situation he would get nauseated and panic. He caught Mark’s eyes and widened his own.

Mark stood and grabbed his plate and Ian’s. 

“Oh don’t be silly Mark; you’re a guest, we’re family. I’ll help Gary.”

His mother helped gather the plates, but left Mark’s glass because it still had water in it.

It was quiet while they moved to the kitchen. The sort of quiet that weighed down on his head and shoulders and settled into his chest. The same quiet he grew up learning to dread, because it meant when he got home, they were going to have a talk--about his future, about whether or not buying more pedals was a good idea, about a less-than-perfect score on a recent exam. It was never about anger, or even about disappointment, but _concern._

Normally he would’ve put the dishes in the dishwasher, but his mother preferred the old fashioned way. Besides, they didn’t have many to clean, anyway, and with her standing by the rinse sink it would be quick.

The silence lasted until the sink was full of hot water.

“Mark seems nice.”

Gary dipped the plate in the hot water. “He is.”

“And you’re going to London with him?”

He swallowed harshly. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Gary?”

He rubbed the plate with the soaked rag. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.” He waited for her to say something in response, but she continued staring into the currently-empty sink basin. Gary probably could’ve put the plate in there now to be rinsed, but he kept scrubbing it anyway.

It was quiet again until he put the plate in the sink.

“Ironic, isn’t it? That you’d be friends with someone from Take That.”

“Is it because he’s gay?” he blurted, then regretted it the second the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t stop himself. There was a reason he’d decided to never come out for years, and now that he was going to one day it terrified him.

“Mark’s a musician, Gary. You know are you are about . . . _that._ It depresses you.” She ran the plate underneath the running water while Gary grabbed another plate. “It’s a little suspicious that you’re going to London with someone who used to be in a band.”

Gary snorted. “It’s not like that, honestly. I wanted to go to London, figured I should ask him to come with me. It’s nothing to do with music, I just like spending time with him. We’re friends.”

“It does concern me, though. His . . . sexuality. He might . . . _think_ you’re interested in something else, something more than friendship.”

He closed his eyes and put the next plate into the rinse basin. What if he told her? What if he told her right now that he was gay, and had been since before he could remember? That the first crush he ever has was on a boy who shared his crayons with him, and that he’d kissed that same boy two years later behind their parked car during a parent-teacher conference? What if he were brave enough to look her in the eye and tell her that he was gay, and dammit, if he wanted to sing and produce music he damn well could?

He wasn’t, though. Maybe he never would be.

“He’s not like that. _They’re_ not like that.”

“They always try to convert--”

“Mum.”

She huffed out some air and jerkily took a plate Gary was still scrubbing with a cloth out of his hands. “I’m simply saying that if they’re gay I don’t know why they have to go around and wave it in our faces, and if you’re not up front with them, they always think a bit of kindness is an invitation, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I’m not being homophobic; I love gay people, honestly.” Sure, she loved them as shopping partners or as ’one of the girls’ but as soon as they weren’t around, she wasn’t the same. “With all this PC nonsense, you can’t even talk with your own child without being shushed. ”

He pinched his lips closed and clenched the rag into his fist. He considered walking out of the kitchen and leaving. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t PC nonsense, that it was just human decency, and that nobody was trying to turn anyone or force anything, that they were just living their damn lives, but he couldn’t. He let the anger grow and boil and churn in his gut, because it was safer. Starting an argument wouldn’t lead anywhere pleasant.

And in the silence, he heard it. The clink of glass against a counter.

He looked over his shoulder to see Mark walking away. His stomach dropped and splattered all that pent-up frustration across the floor.

And all he could do was return to scrubbing the dirty dishes, hands shaking.

* * *

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

The dinner had already been awkward enough and the last thing he wanted was to hear anything that would make it worse, or intrude on Gary’s privacy with his mother. However, small talk with Ian wasn’t making the night any better. Asking him if he had children really hadn’t improved his mood, either. All day the subject of kids was sandpaper to his skin and yet it was all he could think about. It was the dream from last night that had started it, of holding a toddler in his hands and cooing at her, waking convinced for the first tired seconds of the morning that today was her birthday. Ian had three; Mark had none.

It hadn’t taken long for him to empty his glass. Taking it to the sink had given him something to do, and Gary’s widened eyes and small jerk of the head when he’d started grabbing plates had been a cry for help if he’d ever seen one.

He’d just meant to peek his head in and put his glass on the counter; perhaps ask if they needed any help, but he’d heard his name. Anybody would’ve frozen. Anybody would’ve listened.

He’d almost laughed to hear her say he was musician the same way a mother uses that to scold her teenage daughter about dating someone in a punk band, and Gary was a grown man. The fact Gary had to tell his mother that he wasn’t going to partake in anything musical, as if they were talking about drugs and alcohol at a teen party, was ridiculous. It had derailed quickly from that sentence on, though; straight into the fact he was gay, and it was plain to see that she wasn’t okay with that.

He didn’t know if he more sad or angry, but it was certainly a combination of both. He considered walking out the front door and driving home. The day had been total shite and it wasn’t getting any better, so why not? But Gary had nothing to do with that--if anything, Gary had been the only beacon throughout any of it. If he left it would hurt Gary. And besides, he didn’t know where his mobile was.

He stopped outside of the dining room archway to let out a few breaths and push her words from his mind. When he’d calmed down a moment later, he walked into the dining room and smiled at Ian.

“So are you dating anyone?” Ian asked as soon as he sat down.

“No.”

Ian hummed. He narrowed his eyes and licked his bottom lip in the same way Gary often did. “If you’re dating my brother, you don’t have to lie. I won’t tell anyone.”

He hadn’t expected that.

“Oh. Well, we’re not dating. Really.” Ian raised his eyebrows. “No really, we’re not. This is embarrassing, but I actually asked him out once and he told me he was straight. So really, we’re not dating. We’re just friends.”

Ian hummed again, but this time he slumped in his chair. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. He must’ve looked as confused as he felt, because Ian shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s just--I think it’s great that Gary has a mate and all, but . . . Never mind.”

Mark smiled at him but stayed quiet. When Ian looked at him, he simply raised his eyebrows. 

Ian sighed. “All right, but don’t tell him I said this, okay? He’s forty-two, and he’s only had two relationships.” Mark went to correct him and say three, as Gary had told him yesterday, but Ian was on a roll and he didn’t have a chance to open his mouth. “Lasting ones--I’m not talking about someone he took on three dates. We’ve set him up on plenty of dates--plenty of nice girls that he would like--and nothing. I was . . . I thought, maybe, we were just . . . aiming in the wrong direction.”

Mark almost laughed. If his day had been better, he probably would’ve. “Oh?”

“Growing up, he didn’t . . . show interest in anything except music. Which is . . . Well. It is what it is, I’m sure you . . . were the same. But look at you now--Take That didn’t, er. Well it was great--while it lasted. You moved on. Gary . . . hasn’t. And when I say he was really interested in music, I mean it. He . . . ate, slept, breathed it. He wouldn’t hear talk of back up plans. And when his career ended, gracefully I might add, he just . . . stopped. Everything. He seemed fine, for a few years. He had this roommate . . . that didn’t turn out, apparently he didn’t put one foot towards helping at all. That’s the problem, you know, when you have money--people think they can freeload.” He rolled his eyes, but then he shook his head. “That was the last friend he had. He lost it. He shacked up in this place, built some studio and wouldn’t leave. He gained five stone in eight months. All he does is go to that diner. He had a music shop, even, but he sold it. He says it wasn’t doing well, I think he just gave up.”

Mark ran his hand through his hair. He understood that Ian was worried about his brother, and as an older brother himself he knew what that was like, but it was different when he knew Gary’s side of things; that they were far too obsessed with him dating and hadn’t been all that supportive of his aspirations. Also it felt a bit like talking behind Gary’s back, and that never sat well with him. “Ian, it’s . . . very hard, _extremely_ hard, to be given your dream job, and have it yanked out from under you.”

“I realise that, I do. But there comes a point, Mark, and you have to agree with me here, that there’s a difference between being determined, and throwing your life away over it.” Mark pursed his lips and folded his arms. That hit a little close to home--he’d thrown his life away for it too, and he would do it again. “People need people in their lives, Mark. Even if it’s another man.”

All Mark could do was nod. 

“Years ago, _years_ ago, like early nineties, we sat him down. Me and a friend, but it was mostly me. He’d just ended a relationship, think he was a bit torn up about not getting in, uh, in the band, but if you ask me he wasn’t ever that passionate about her, anyway. And we thought, a night out with the boys, we could suss out what he wanted in a girl. I knew that if I told him that was what we were doing he wouldn’t, so we just . . . acted like we were talking about the perfect girl. You know how guys are, we start off with simple things--blonde, petite, breasts, that sort of thing. And then you go on from there. My friend said the perfect girl would be someone who always wore skirts and stayed up late partying, but woke up early and cooked all the meals. She liked all the same music he did and loved the same movies he did and would play poker every Thursday with him and his mates and smoke cigars and play footie. And I had a bit of a specific list by the end, too, and we all joked and laughed.

“Here’s the thing. Lisa isn’t exactly like the list I made. And the woman he married? She hates sports, she hates smoking, and she’s in bed before ten every night. But Gary . . . .”

Mark frowned. He’d heard a bit about this list when they’d gone shopping yesterday.

Ian shook his head and let out a sigh. “I’m not saying that the reason he never likes the women we set him up with is because they aren’t his list’s walking incarnate. But . . . he’s _picky._ Like I said, we were all specific, but he was . . . _very_ specific. This last girl he dated, Allison, fit it to a T. Every. Single. Thing. They weren’t even together two years.”

“Some people don’t . . . really like dating, Ian. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.”

“He cries at romantic comedies. He wrote love songs.”

Okay, he had a point there.

“It started small, someone with a beautiful smile and bright eyes. Small, short. Brunette. Very clean. Someone who’s open-minded and had the same sense of humour and laughed at his jokes. He said he wanted someone who loved music, and loved Nirvana and prog and Radiohead. A girl who’d watch _Star Trek_ and _Star Wars_ with him. Someone not too extroverted. I understand that, even if he’s not too much of a Nirvana or Radiohead fan. Then he went on about how she’d dress quirky, and stand out; weird, bright colours, scarves. Loud laugh, loves children--and as far as I know, he doesn’t even want kids--and eats healthy, eats kale and drinks green tea and loves eating in, and Gary doesn’t . . . really like eating in. Someone who loves cheese--what’s that? Who cares about cheese? Has a dolphin tattoo on her pelvis, loves wearing hats. A girl who was captivating and talks about philosophy late into the night.” Ian shook his head with a familiar snort.

Mark narrowed his eyes as the list played through his mind. He hadn’t meant to mentally check off each characteristic, but when someone sat at the same table and rattled off trait after trait that described you, down to the tattoo, it was hard not to. Then again, there were probably loads of girls who had dolphin tattoos, loved eating healthy and music and those movies. Even the physical characteristics. It wasn’t too narrow, really, nor anything impossible to find. After all, he had said Allison had fit it to a T, hadn’t he? Besides, Gary liked women, and Mark certainly couldn’t check that.

“I thought, well, if he couldn’t last with Allison, maybe . . . .” He lifted his eyes and met Mark’s, but then he looked downward. “Maybe he just wanted someone impossible so that he’d never have to actually try.”

Mark nodded slowly, distractedly.

Gary couldn’t possibly have intentionally based the list off of Mark, because Gary hated Take That, especially in the nineties. Unless he were lying about that, but he wouldn’t. Would he? Mark had met plenty of girls, in the nineties and Nigel wouldn’t let him be out as gay, who would act as if they didn’t know who he was because they thought that he wouldn’t see their obvious lead ins to specific kinds of topics. Did they think it made any connection they had more genuine? He’d met men that did that after he’d come out, too. But anybody who would lie about that had to know eventually he’d find out, if they wanted anything that lasted, and if they only wanted a one night stand, then why pretend as if they weren’t aware of who he was? Even if he didn’t understand it, it didn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Gary didn’t seem like the type. Mark had looked through his iPod plenty of times and he’d only seen Mark’s stuff recently, but nothing from Take That. Besides, why go through all the trouble to tell him he was straight when he did ask him out? No, it didn’t make sense. Even if Gary were that kind of person, how would he get his family to play along?

Him lying didn’t make sense, so it had to be a coincidence. Besides, it wasn’t like the kind of girl he’d described was that hard to find, anyway.

Somehow, accepting that there was no possible way Gary could’ve meant him didn’t make him feel any better.

* * *

Even if the rest of washing up was awkwardly silent, it was preferable to the discussion they’d been having, and the topics it would’ve devolved into had he not stopped her. Of course she would think that as disrespect, but he couldn’t stand listening to that again. He’d heard it too many times to count, but he couldn’t pretend it didn’t bother him any longer.

Truth was, it hurt. It hurt enough to make him reconsider ever coming out. To think about pursuing a relationship but keeping everything behind closed doors and never telling anyone, like he had before. Of course that wouldn’t be fair to Mark (or whoever) so maybe he would have to continue going on as he was--closeted. Never being in a relationship with a man, and coping with being single for the rest of his life, or finding a woman that he could marry and find something close to right. He could fake it, couldn’t he? He had before.

It wouldn’t change how he felt though, and it wouldn’t change the fact he’d spend the rest of his life looking, and hoping, and crying. He wouldn’t stop remembering Mark’s beautiful face declaring proudly that he was gay, despite how clear it was that he wasn’t in accepting company. At every dinner he had, the words would feel heavy on his tongue and try to break free. That or he would continue as he was now, and he’d have to remove Mark from his life because he couldn’t be close friends with him and not slip one day. He’d go back to doing nothing but going to the same diner repeatedly and pretend there wasn’t a shadow of guilt looming overhead every time he walked by the door that led to his studio; the one he’d made himself, and never used.

Keeping it a secret didn’t make it untrue. It would always be there, and he’d always be gay, and his family would always look down on that. It wasn’t any different than how they were now, though, was it? Except that they spoke freely in front of him, never considering that perhaps they were saying it to him as well. That was what hurt; knowing that, no matter what he did, once they knew, they would always see a disappointment. No matter if they watched their language around him, or asked about his boyfriend, that when he wasn’t around, it would be different. That even if they were kind enough to pretend to care while he could see and hear them, that inside they would never accept it. They would hate it. Think the worst of him, that he would go to Hell and that he was lesser for it. No matter how much he loved them, they would never be able to wholly love him in return. His mother would get tears in her eyes when she thought about another man holding her little boy’s hand, and how he would forever be ruined; that he had chosen to be this way, despite how wrong it was, and no matter what, her thoughts of him would always be tainted.

In a simpler world, she would be a terrible, abusive mother; one that hadn’t comforted him after nightmares, or pretended she couldn’t see him sneaking into the kitchen at night to steal sweets. Someone who hadn’t supported him, albeit grudgingly, when he pursued a career she didn’t particularly want for him. One who hadn’t packed school lunches for him in paper bags with a note inside, or took him to his earliest gigs and dealt with the constant racket in his room while he practised for hours on end. She wouldn’t have come to check on him occasionally, or bought him presents at every birthday--ones he wanted, even if she’d rather him want something else. One who hadn’t scooped him up in her arms even when he was big enough to hurt her back, and still hugged him every time they saw each other.

In the real world, she was loving, caring mother, who happened to be traditional. And would never be able to see him the same again.

Deciding that he would, one day, intentionally put himself in that position, was hard. Hearing her remarks while doing the washing up made it harder.

When they finished, he went into the dining room to hear Ian talking about when he’d taken Lisa and their kids to the London Zoo. Mum said that she had to leave because she had errands to run in the morning, although Gary doubted that was at all true, and Ian clapped Mark on the shoulder amicably as they left.

“They called about four. There wasn’t much time for better cooking,” he explained the second they were alone.

Mark walked over to the wall, staring up at his framed pictures of him with various musicians and awards. “I thought it was nice. I didn’t even know you had a dining room.”

“I’m never in here.” He eyed the wall that currently had Mark’s attention. He tried to ignore the sharp pain in his chest when he saw the picture of him and Madonna and the award beside it. He joined Mark in looking, but it was all pretence on his side. Even looking at his achievements hurts; it only served as a reminder of everything he’d never experience again. 

“Table’s small, but I like it.”

“I was thinking about putting it in the kitchen, setting up a pool table in here instead. I’d probably spend more time in here then.” Or he’d never touch a cue again in his life.

“We could play pool together. You should do that. If you want.”

He shifted his weight onto his other foot and craned his head to look at the framed picture above Madonna. “Maybe.”

“So your brother told me about this infamous list of yours, Gaz.”

Gary snorted and turned his head to face Mark. “Christ, he’s not roping you into finding me the perfect woman too, is he?”

“No, he actually asked if we were dating.”

_Fuck._

“He thinks I’m gay?”

Mark turned his head slowly, grey eyes hitting light in the right angle to make them shine. “More liked hoped you were.” Gary’s face scrunched up and he tilted his head. Mark chuckled. “He just wants you to be happy. Well, he wants you to be dating, really. Thinks that’ll make you happy.” He craned his neck and looked at the pictures again, hands clasped behind his back.

“I _am_ happy.”

“Are you?” A wistful, nonchalant tone and disinterested gaze at an autographed picture of him with George Michael didn’t fool Gary.

He didn’t feel like lying, anyway.

“No.”

Mark stopped looking at the wall and focused on him again. He nodded, and somehow it loosened the knots in Gary’s chest. He smiled and Mark smiled back. If he could only gather up the courage Mark had, one day his brother wouldn’t have to wonder anymore, and that made the prospect less frightening. 

Mark stepped closer and lowered his chin a bit, a half smile still on his face. “Y’know, from what your brother said, your list’s not too specific anyway. If you were tryin’ to make it impossible, you failed.”

“That so?”

“Even I fit it.”

Gary reeled his head back. “What, really?”

“Yeah, look.” He untucked his shirt and pulled his trousers down slightly, just enough to show off a dolphin tattoo, right where his pelvis met his abdomen. He ran his hand across the blue ink. “And I like _Star Trek_ and Radiohead and all that.”

Mark’s little fingers smoothed across his skin and Gary’s twitched from wanting to join. It wouldn’t be difficult to take two steps forward, slide his hand across the tattoo, and press his mouth to Mark’s.

He dropped his shirt and Gary yanked his eyes to Mark. “See? If only I were a woman.”

Gary’s heart thumped right into his sternum, but he kept his composure. “That’s the same tattoo Allison had, now that I think on it.”

“Well you did say she was a big fan of mine.”

Gary hummed, then shook his head. “You can’t possibly fit the list perfectly. He gave you a condensed version, I’m sure.”

Mark raised his eyebrows challengingly.

“Well obviously you’ve got the physical traits down, but what about cheese? Green tea, kale? Eating in?” Mark grinned wider. “You like prog? And . . . hats?”

“I love hats. I have a bit of a collection. Scarves too, and showy colours, bright clothing. Well, obviously.” He shrugged casually, his smirk getting cheekier by the second.

“Okay fine. What about . . . your mum. Does she love Elvis and your dad was in a band?”

Mark’s expression fell for a second. “Actually yeah, but Ian didn’t mention that bit.”

“He doesn’t know that bit.”

“Oh.”

There was a physical list; one that Ian had made him write down, but there were additions, ones that only existed in Gary’s head, because they were specific and ridiculous. Less about the traits and personality of the person he wanted to be with, and more about invented stories in his head. Being alone for as long as he had offered plenty of time to picture the perfect man and imagining lying in bed with him, hearing stories of when he grew up and scars he had and why he had them; first heartbreaks and first times. None of them were even remotely important, of course, or at all essential to the kind of person he wanted to be with, so he’d never spoken of them to anyone.

“Lots of mums like Elvis. Loads of dads were in bands.” For whatever reason, Gary needed to shrug it off, because the idea that Mark could fit a list he wrote in the early nineties about the perfect boyfriend, before Take That had become popular, was too weird. Too coincidental, too strange.

“True. Did you know, though, that Elvis was blond? And, er. At least bi?”

Of course Gary knew. He collected that sort of information and stored it away in his mind. When he felt particularly shitty about himself, he pulled it up and used the knowledge to comfort himself. “He was with a man called Nick Adams, right? And his manager used that to control him.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

Mark nodded.

Mind still reeling from Mark mentioning--and fitting--the list, Gary could hardly concentrate on much else. Then again, it wasn’t as if it was too impossible a list to fit, especially if you only considered the physical copy. Seeing as none of the imaginary stories he’d invented in his head were important at all, there was nothing else to consider. He’d seen plenty of women on his trip to LA with dolphin tattoos--and more than a few men. How was he to know that none of them could fit the list, too?

“It’s getting late. Could I have my phone please?”

“Oh right, of course. It’s on me coffee table, c’mon.”

He didn’t need to lead Mark to the living room since he’d been there before, so Mark walked alongside him, their arms bumping gently. When they turned into the living room Gary glanced at the kitchen and cleared his throat. “How much did you hear? In the kitchen.”

Mark had turned away from him to grab his mobile from the coffee table. “I heard enough.”

He’d figured as much. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.” Mark had his phone, but he was still turned away from him. Gary didn’t blame him--after being forced into an awkward dinner and then having to hear that? “Mum is . . . a bit traditional. You know, old fashioned.”

Mark turned. “Not to be rude, Gaz, but in my experience, old fashioned and traditional are just words that sound nicer than bigot.” He didn’t speak too harshly or snap; his words were a bit crisper and his voice perhaps a little louder, but he didn’t sound angry.

Still, Gary’s hackles rose. “She’s my mother, Mark.”

However, Gary’s voice was definitely sharper.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. See you later.” He rushed through the words as quickly as he moved to leave the living room.

Gary stood in front of him to block his path. Head lowered, Mark tried to move around him and Gary stood in front of him again. He grabbed his arm, though not tightly. “Mark, I--” Mark turned his face upward to meet Gary’s, and there was wetness beneath his cheeks. He wished he could say he couldn’t understand on a personal level why, but he did. The only difference was Mark hadn’t had years of conditioning and readying himself for those kinds of comments. “I’m sorry. She shouldn’t’ve said any of that.”

Mark averted his eyes and shook his head. “I’ll just--I’ll go, I’m sorry.”

Gary stepped closer and shook his head. “No, I didn’t--look, I don’t want you to think I . . . .” Mark still averted his gaze, but he wasn’t pulling away. “I don’t agree with her. I don’t feel the way she does about that, you know? She’s just my mum, and it’s hard for me to . . . .” To what? Stand up for himself? Tell her to stop? Hear the truth from someone’s else’s mouth? It shouldn’t have been hard, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought himself, but she was his _mother._

She was also a large part of why he’d spent his life hiding and afraid.

He let go of Mark’s arm. Mark stepped back, head lowered but not hidden, eyes still wet but his cheeks dry. How else would he have reacted? 

“Look I . . . I understand if you don’t want to . . . I dunno, go to London with me now, spend time with me. This dinner was terrible and, well. The way my mum is, I get it.”

“You’re not your family, Gaz. I’m just tired, and I’ve had a long day.”

Gary nodded and stepped aside to let Mark go. Hearing that he wasn’t his family was far more relieving than it should’ve been. Still, though, he felt calmer; safer. He walked Mark to the door.

In the open doorway, half in and half out, Mark looked over his shoulder. “We should go to the zoo.”

“I’d love to. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. I’ll text you.”

The door shut. Gary rubbed the back of his neck. As terrible as today was, at least it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.


	9. Eight Letters

“Can I bum a fag?” Carlo asked while Mark walked out of the diner five o’ clock Sunday evening.

Mark patted himself down, the frowned when he felt nothing. Why that surprised him he didn’t know. He was the one who spent or didn’t spend money on cigarettes. When was the last time he bought a pack, anyway? “Actually Carlo, I haven’t smoked since, er . . . It’s been awhile.” He racked his brain, trying to remember, but smoking hadn’t crossed his mind for quite some time.

He hadn’t even realised it, but he had stopped smoking.

“Congrats, mate. Wish I could quit. I’m down to only five a day, though, that’s something right?” Mark nodded and stepped off the pavement onto the asphalt. “Shame about that train accident though, right? No survivors, I heard.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, I know.” Carlo shook his head and put his hands in his pockets with a sigh. “See you Wednesday, then.”

“You too.”

Mark hurried to his car, waving absent-mindedly although he wasn’t looking toward Carlo so he didn’t have any idea if Carlo saw. As soon as he got in his car he pulled out his mobile.

_Gonna wash up then be right over._

Mark hadn’t even turned the keys before his phone beeped. _All packed and ready to go on this end ! See you soon x_

After the terrible dinner on Wednesday, they hadn’t physically done anything together. Gary had come in on Friday as usual, though they’d only waved at each other. Except for then, they hadn’t even seen each other. Despite that, if Mark wasn’t working or sleeping, they’d texted nearly non-stop. It was actually helpful, since they’d decided that after Mark finished his shift, they would head for London, spend the night and spend all day Monday there, then go home on Tuesday.

Their trip wasn’t the only thing they texted about, though. Gary would tell him what song had come on shuffle and talk about a memory he had while listening to it, or talk about something he was watching on telly; he’d talk about embarrassing things he’d done as a child, like how he’d danced in front of the telly in nothing but his whitey tighties so he could pretend it was him on stage, or how he’d tried to prank his parents when they came home from a date once, but he’d fallen asleep waiting for them. In turn, Mark responded by telling him stories from his own childhood, picking on both his younger siblings, and helping Tracey dress for her first date because she’d been too nervous to pick the outfit herself, or he’d talk about what songs his iPod kept playing too, because Gary enjoyed hearing about that, and he liked sharing the information.

Once, Gary mentioned he was in the bath while they were texting, and a few moments later sent him a picture of his hair up in a shampooed Mohawk. Mark had laughed at that, then snapped a few pictures of him modelling the oddest collection of clothes he had in his closet--a pink feather boa and large sunglasses, with a wide-brimmed black hat and a neon yellow shirt. After that they’d spent at least an hour taking pictures of themselves making goofy faces or piling random objects on top of their heads.

He had forgotten what it was like to wrap himself in his blanket in the dark and text for hours into the night, the screen a beacon of illumination, giggling into his pillow and overusing emoticons. Getting deeper and more emotional and philosophical as the night grew on was something he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced over text at all. Previously, texting had only ever been used for flirting when entering a new relationship. That wasn’t to say that he’d been unable to have deep conversations in the past; of course he had, but always physically. With Gary, one moment they were laughing about how silly siblings could be, and the next Gary and him were discussing whether fate existed, or if it was all a string of random coincidence that seemed like fate only because they were looking for it. What would it be like to be lying face to face in a bed, talking until they passed out? He nearly asked Gary that question several times when his thoughts became tangled up in fatigue; instead, he texted him goodnight and fell asleep with his hand curled around the phone.

Perhaps it always felt like this, when making a new friend, or fancying someone new, but he couldn’t remember ever having anything quite like what he had with Gary before. He’d had loving, wonderful boyfriends, and he’d cared about them with his whole heart; he’d spent hours looking at the stars talking about the universe with almost all of them. They could spend hours talking or in silence. None of that was new. But somehow, everything with Gary felt just more. The conversations held more importance, the music discussions were more in-depth (of course, that made sense, as they were both musicians) and the conversations deeper, more interesting. They were only friends, though, not dating. It felt more meaningful despite (or perhaps, because of) that.

Mark had packed the night before, everything except his toiletries. When he made it home, he showered quickly, brushed his teeth and quickly fixed up his hair. He dressed in jeans that he’d paid far too much money for a few years ago and the first shirt he saw (it was light green with a v-neck). He grabbed his iPod, made sure it was charged, and checked his phone. There was a text from Gary telling him to park in his garage. He grabbed everything he’d packed, stuffed them in the boot of his car, and headed to Gary’s. All of this in record time.

When he pulled into the garage beside Gary’s car and turned off the ignition, he checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror. The shirt looked closer to lime green than it had in his closet, and he regretted putting it on, but it was too late to change. He looked at his reflection again to make sure his hair looked passable, nodded, and got out of the car.

When he stepped out, the door that led into the kitchen opened. The garage itself was dimly lit, with only a thin, dusty window near the ceiling to let the sun in, so the light from the kitchen framed Gary, a recently-shaved angel.

Gary flipped the switch beside the door, and light flooded the garage. He smiled crookedly and walked down the small set of stairs from the door into the garage. Something struck Mark hard, straight in the chest and head.

He was in love with Gary.

“Shit.”

Gary furrowed his brows and stopped in front of him. “What?”

“Oh, um,” Mark plucked his thoughts wildly, “I left me lucky pants at home.”

The crooked smile returned and he quirked his eyebrow. Gary didn’t say anything. He just chuckled and headed to the boot, and Mark stood there, breathless.

This really, _really_ wasn’t good.

* * *

They talked about yesterday’s train accident, which had unfortunately been the topic of nearly every news show on the telly since it had happened. Mark talked about his job for a little while before remembering that he had somehow quit smoking without intending to, and Gary congratulated him. They talked about the weather, and their families, and there were a few times Gary got sidetracked and discussed Jamie Oliver at length, before they talked about traffic, or Breaking Bad, or some other inessential, simple discussion, and throughout it all, a cloud of being in love with Gary hung over Mark’s head.

Gary’s iPod played through the radio, songs shuffling from one to the next, and they discussed the rise and fall of various instruments; the quality of the singer’s voice, what they thought the lyrics meant, and Mark couldn’t focus on any of it. Enough to carry on the conversation regularly and laugh and enjoy talking, but with an ever present undercurrent of the fact he was in love with his straight friend. It replayed in his mind over and over, to the point he worried that it might slip out without him wanting it too, in mid-sentence, as silly as it was. Of course it wouldn’t, he had full control over what he said and didn’t say.

It wasn’t until they made it to the hotel that his mind finally calmed at half past eleven at night, and likely only because his brain was fogged over with the exhaustion that always overtook him during long car rides.

The hotel was better than any Mark had been to in years, although not nearly as lavish as the ones he’d been to in the nineties. It didn’t matter, as they didn’t need anything spectacular; they only needed to spend the night tonight and tomorrow. Gary had reserved the room Friday, of which Mark was glad because a part of him always worried that they’d ask for a room and be told there weren’t any left.

A porter took their luggage for them, a service Mark hadn’t had for at least a decade, and Gary handed everything over habitually as well as a tip and a quick thank you, all while telling Mark about the time his family had gone on a vacation and had to spend the night in the car because every hotel they went to had been completely booked. Ever since then, Gary always called ahead of time and reserved, because he hated sleeping in cars. Mark laughed and smiled when he pictured a grumpy eight year old Gary folding his arms in the backseat of a car, whining about the whole situation.

Their hotel was on the eighth floor, and before they could even walk to the lifts, they had to show their key cards to a man in a suit. He barely glanced at it before leading them to the first hallway and pointing them to the lifts on the left side. The lifts on the right side only took them from ground floor to the fourth floor, while the ones on the left took them from floors five to ten. Their room was on floor eight, and Mark remembered the days of top-floor suites and rooms larger than the flat he currently lived in, with bathrooms the size of bedrooms. Thinking on it, he was certain the lift they stood in was actually larger than his loo, and definitely better lit. 

He remembered staying in studios with Rob because he could, jumping on the comically oversized mattress and spraying champagne everywhere until they fell asleep on opposite ends of the bed, with space between them to fit two more people. Why have a bed that large? Why not? Why get the studio when they ordered room service instead of using the kitchen with cupboards with dishes and silverware? Again, why not?

All of the why nots were years behind him. Even when Rob whisked him away for a refresher in lavishness and ridiculously massive beds and unnecessarily expensive minibars and grown men jumping around like children, Mark still felt as though he hadn’t taken full advantage of the time he’d had when he could do it on his own. Despite the many countries he’d been to and cultures he’d experienced, it wasn’t enough. He’d wanted to spend his life travelling and singing, touching people and reaching into them with his words and sounds and ideas. Instead he found himself stranded far away from Why Not and instead living in Is It Necessary and Maybe Next Time. He shouldn’t have expected the rest of his life to stay the way it had in the nineties, and even if every return into this world felt like going home, it wasn’t, and never would be again.

Here Gary was, clearly with money to spend on pricey hotels instead of convenient motels, who hadn’t even tried after he’d been dropped. What Mark would give for that kind of opportunity. Then again, he’d had that opportunity, hadn’t he? And he’d blown it. Nobody wanted to hear Mark Owen anymore, and maybe Gary was smart enough to avoid the pain. He may not be producing music, but he wasn’t sweating all day in a diner serving coffee and living in a flat, smacking the wall beside the sink every morning until the water stopped spurting and started flowing so he could brush his teeth.

Room 831 shone like a beacon, and it wasn’t until relief washed over him when Gary swiped the key card to open it, that Mark realised how tired he was. He hadn’t slept much last night out of excitement so he’d packed instead. Of course he’d been tired when he woke up, but he’d simply drank more coffee than usual. Any time someone asked him why he was in such a good mood, he said nothing except that he’d been having a good day. He’d learned not to say anything involving his personal life if he didn’t want everybody knowing it five minutes later. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them knowing he was going to London, though; it was that he didn’t want Jeannie piecing together he was going with Gary. Would she lecture him about why it was a bad idea? Would she tell him not to go? Would she simply tell him she needed him to cover someone else’s shift on Monday to prevent him from leaving at all? Exaggeration or not, he didn’t want to chance it. Even Carlo had taken a dislike to Gary since Wednesday. Coupled with post-work fatigue and the long car drive, of course he was tired. 

Gary opened the door and gestured for Mark to go in first. There was a sink to the immediate right of him, and a door to his left. Walking past the sink led into a spacious room, with a flat screen mounted on the wall in front of two large beds. Instead of an outer wall there was a window, with the curtains opened, overlooking London, streets lined with headlights and buildings glowing against the night sky. Beneath the flat screen sat a long dresser, and against that were their suitcases and Mark’s toiletries rucksack. Between the two beds was a nightstand with a lamp and a remote. The walls and the beds were white but the carpet was a dark brown. There wasn’t much to it, but it was spacious and inviting and far better than tacky portraits of sailboats and lighthouses on torn wallpaper and mattresses that looked like sheet-covered rocks and scratchy puke-coloured blankets that he’d grown accustomed to in motels.

Gary yawned and checked his watch. “It’s almost midnight. Long drive, eh? Fucking hate traffic.”

Gary opened his suitcase and pulled out some clothes before disappearing behind the door across from the sink. Mark stretched his hands above his head, then sifted through his own clothes to find his pyjamas. In retrospect, putting on his expensive jeans and, even if closer to lime green than he’d wanted, a nice shirt just for the car ride was a bit silly, but he hadn’t had much foresight. Then again, Gary saw enough of him in his uniform, so why not?

Mark smiled as he shed his shirt. Why not, indeed.

His sea-foam green bottoms were a bit short so they were higher than his ankles and they hung low on his hips. His shirt was an old vest top that fit snugly and would’ve been nice to wear during hot, sweaty summer days, but unfortunately he’d spilled bleach on it once, so a few white splotches against grey near his collar ruined it. Yet it was comfortable, so he slept in it. 

He flung himself on the bed by the window facedown into a pillow, and giggled deeply into it. The white, thick duvets fluffed out beneath him and he sunk into the mattress. He flopped onto his back and stretched his arms out with a long sigh. His bed at home was shit compared to this. It was all hard and old and creaky; this was soft and quiet and warm, and enveloped him like sinking into a cloud. He kicked the blankets out from underneath him and scrabbled as lazily as he could onto the sheets, and he chuckled again, closing his eyes. He hadn’t felt expensive, ridiculously high thread-count sheets for so long he had forgotten what it was like to feel them underneath his body.

He soaked it in, eyes closed, and relaxation started to turn into half-dreams. He was going to take in as much of this vacation as he possibly could. 

He bounced into the air suddenly and gasped. He tilted his head to the left to see Gary facedown beside him. Mark laughed and moved onto his shoulder so he could face Gary, who turned onto his side so they were looking at each other. Gary had on a hideous pink tee, though because the colour was uneven and splotchy, he had a feeling it wasn’t intended to be, and grey sweats. “Lovely view,” Gary commented with a grin.

Though Mark’s back was turned towards the window, he had seen it earlier. “I know, London’s gorgeous.”

Gary’s grin shifted into something more mischievous. “Is it? I wouldn’t know, some prat’s giant head’s in the way.”

“Oi!” Mark swatted him. “I don’t have a giant head, me head’s normal sized.”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure that’s a sizeable head you’ve got there, Marky.”

Mark swatted at him again only to have Gary push his shoulder in return. Next second, they were shoving at each other, fingers digging into sides and squirming about, tickling and skimming along bared skin from their shirts being ridden up their torsos. Gary’s long fingers found every ticklish spot he had without any searching, that or he had somehow spontaneously grown new ones to accommodate Gary’s tickling. Judging by Gary’s high-pitched squeal of laughter, Mark was finding his with ease, too. 

The bed shifted and bounced softly beneath them while they howled and tickled and pushed. Gary’s hands were cool against his lower abdomen and his back, fingers dancing and digging their way across his flesh, and although Mark didn’t intend to touch any bare skin of Gary’s, he did once and he was warm and soft and Gary’s laughing face was more beautiful than it had any right to be.

Mark attacked Gary’s side as well as his navel, who giggled and squealed. He grabbed Mark’s hands and yanked them away. He pinned them on the bed and let out a triumphant; “Hah!”

“Okay fine, you win!” he managed through breathless chuckles.

Gary’s laughter faded in time with Mark’s, but he didn’t let go of his hands or move away. His torso stretched across Mark’s chest, their faces inches away from each other, gorgeous grey eyes glinting in the lamplight. He couldn’t catch his breath; deep breaths in and out, and probably a tad louder than they normally were. Gary pulled up, enough to no longer trap Mark’s chest, and let go of Mark’s hand. Mark squeezed the one still pinning him down; didn’t think about how he shouldn’t.

Gary brushed his fringe from his eyes and this time, Mark’s exhale shook. Gary smirked for a second, then smeared his thumb across Mark’s forehead. “Simbaaaaaa,” he intoned in a deep voice.

Mark lost it in a fit of giggles again. Gary plopped onto the bed, laughing just as hard as before.

When Mark stopped laughing, he turned his head to face Gary, though he remained on his back. “Really Gaz, you’re such a goof.”

“What? I love that film.”

“You would.”

“What, you’re sayin’ you _don’t_ like it?”

“I didn’t say that. Of course I do, it’s great. One of the best Disney ones if you ask me.” Lying on his back with his head turned to see Gary kinked his neck awkwardly. He could look at the ceiling, or he could turn on his side to either face Gary fully or the window and focus on the lovely view. Staring at London was the safer and wiser choice.

He curled onto his shoulder and faced Gary. _“Beauty and the Beast_ is great too. _Tarzan._ Oh, and I really liked _Mulan.”_

“Those are great yeah, definitely. I’m startin’ to really like the newer ones, too. Didn’t think I’d like _Tangled_ but I did.” Gary had curled onto his side too, head pushed into the large, cushiony pillow.

It was the same pillow Mark was using. They were on the same side of the bed, knees actually touching with how close they were. The blankets were shoved near the foot of the bed, half on the floor, but it wasn’t too chilly so Mark didn’t mind. However there was something about lying there, inches from Gary, without any covers that had him feeling exposed. Vulnerable.

Gary’s eyes lowered; focused on the bare skin that his low riding trousers and a bit short vest top showed. He reached forward and dragged the tip of his index finger across his pelvis. Mark’s skin jumped and he sucked in a quiet breath. “Sorry,” Gary whispered, pulling his hand back as if he’d been burned.

“It’s fine.”

Gary cleared his throat. “So why the tattoo?”

“’Cause I like dolphins and, er, that area of my body is . . . _sensitive.”_ He lifted his shirt an inch and rubbed his tattoo with his hand twice, before lowering his shirt and smiling back at Gary with a one-armed shrug. 

“So it’s . . . a bit of a target, then,” Gary asked in a low tone.

“I was young, you know, and I was quite proud of how I looked in a half-shirt. You know, somethin’ for the fellas I got with. So . . . Yeah, I guess. A target.” A target to kiss, mouth, caress, and all manner of things he ought not to be thinking about while sharing a pillow with Gary. “Why’s it on your list?”

“Guess I just like adorable tattoos on adorable people.”

Mark snorted and swatted Gary gently on the chest. Gary scrunched his nose and opened his mouth in a silent laugh. “And of course, short brunettes with light eyes are adorable.”

“You’d know.” His voice was still low; in that deep octave Mark had mistaken for flirtatiousness, but had to be seriousness. “Well, I might have a bit of a soft spot for blondes too. I’m not picky.”

“Oh right, not picky at all, just have a list floatin’ around somewhere.”

“Hey now, I’m tellin’ you, he made me do it!”

Mark laughed for the hundredth time in two minutes, and far too loudly, so he turned his head to bury his mouth into his pillow. When his laughter subsided he faced Gary again, lips pinched together and trying to stop himself from grinning, but he failed. Gary’s face hadn’t changed; a soft smile and an eyebrow quirked, eyes locked onto his.

Gary sat up, but instead of getting off the bed he grabbed the mess of blankets and pulled them over both of them. Before putting his head back on the pillow, he switched off the lamp behind him.

They were in the same bed, in a dark hotel room, with the same warm, comforting duvet cocooning them. The nightlife of London filtered into the room, giving enough light for Mark to see Gary’s face. The stillness and quiet pressed in on Mark softly, the tiredness that had briefly disappeared from their small tickle fight returning. He wanted to close his eyes and give in, but at the same time he wanted to keep them open and fixed on Gary, who stared right back.

“Sometimes I think Ian’s right. That I did write it just to create someone he couldn’t find. I didn’t mean to, though. I just kept adding to it, in my head. First the Elvis thing and the band, but that’s not too specific either. Allison’s parents were that way. Then it was liking _Ghostbusters_ and having merchandise, and I’m not even that big of a fan of _Ghostbusters,_ honestly.” He furrowed his brows and lost the intense focus on his eyes he’d had moments before.

Mark’s chest tightened. He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“I know, it’s ridiculous. You have to understand though, I never . . . settling down, marriage, that sort of thing, that wasn’t ever on my mind. Just never crossed it. I was still young, and they were actin’ like I was an old maid. I didn’t want that. I wanted music, a career, lights and cameras and crowds, just eatin’ up my words and goin’ home feelin’ like their lives had changed and the whole world was ahead of ‘em, just ‘cause they’d heard me sing. I got turned away from one audition, and they wasted no time in talking about finding the right girl and settling down.”

Mark’s mind whirred and shifted. He heard Gary’s words and their sincerity, but he couldn’t process them. _“Ghostbusters_ merchandise?”

Gary chuckled and shook his head. “I know, I know. I do like the movie, but it’s not . . . something I’m passionate about. Then again I always wanted _Star Wars_ merchandise. I guess in the end we’re always lookin’ for someone who’s a little bit like ourselves, right? I got some, though. I have lightsabers and a Storm Trooper outfit. I’ll show you sometime.”

It couldn’t have been on purpose, because if this was right after he’d been turned away from auditions, there was no way he could've, purposely or subconsciously, picked traits that were specific to Mark, specific enough to focus on _Ghostbusters_ merchandise. They hadn’t had a chance to matter to anyone yet.

“Yeah.” He sounded like a zombie, so he cleared his throat. “That would be nice,” he added, this time with more assuredness in his tone. He snuggled deeper into the mattress and pillow, and let his eyes stay closed for a few seconds when he blinked. When he opened them, it was only enough to see Gary clearly, his lids half-mast. “You really are a bit of a geek, Gaz. With your lightsabers and _Star Trek_ and Disney. It’s sweet.”

“As if you aren’t.” Gary lowered his voice to a whisper and shifted closer, as if telling secrets that someone could overhear.

Mark smirked. “Just a bit. Anyway, Rob has a lightsaber too, so I guess it’s not _too_ bad.”

Gary’s eyes closed and his nose scrunched. He smiled, but it wasn’t long before it faded from his face. Just as Mark was going to close his eyes, Gary’s opened. “Well you know what they say, Marky. Birds of a feather.”

He was too tired too laugh. “Guess that’s true.” Gary’s slow blink was endearing, and the way lights and shadows flickered across his face brought to mind some artwork he’d seen hanging somewhere in a restaurant once; a rainy cobble-stoned street at night, with streetlamps reflecting in the pools of water. He had considered asking to buy it, but had decided against it. There had been something dreary yet peaceful and beautiful about it, something he saw in Gary’s face and eyes and reflected light now.

Gary shifted closer, though it looked similar to snuggling into the bed and getting comfortable so maybe Mark had just imagined it.

“Thanks, Gaz.”

“For what?”

“Taking me here.” 

They spoke as if the air around them could shatter with too harsh a consonant or too loud a word. The intimacy of sharing breaths and a pillow and comforters seeped into their whispers. The smoothness of their voices and sheets and Gary’s jaw swept over Mark. It wouldn’t be long before he fell asleep, but he wanted to hold onto this moment, so he forced himself to keep talking before he buried his thoughts like he’d buried his want of the picture and every want to speak out for himself for years.

“My life used to be like this, y’know. Hotels, travelling. New people, talking all night. Once you have that, it’s hard to think of one day losing it all, and I never--I guess it never occurred to me that it wouldn’t always be that way. I miss it, I miss going places and bein’ in rooms like this, and I love London. Rob and I used to get studios, y’know, just ‘cause we could, and spend all night in bed talkin’ like this, partying, drinking and laughing. It’s stupid, I know, we were young. But thank you. So much.”

“Were you and Rob . . . ?”

Mark snorted and closed his eyes, focusing on the blackness. “No, no. He’s straight, and even if he weren’t, I just couldn’t think of him like that. He’s like me brother.”

Gary’s breath stirred across his mouth. Tangible heat radiated from his body. Their knees knocked. How long had it been since he’d shared a bed with anyone?

“I miss it too.”

Mark pried his eyes open an inch to see Gary’s blurred face even closer than before. “Yeah?”

“I wasn’t ever like you guys, of course. I never travelled. Just toured a bit, up and down England, nothing huge. But the dinners with BMG, seeing fans’ eyes light up when I sang . . . .”

Against his better judgement, Mark cupped Gary’s jaw, just long enough to stroke his smooth skin. His hand plopped between them. “You can try again, you know.”

“Nah, it’s over for me.”

“S’not, though. C’mon, you’re--you’re brilliant. Your voice is like a . . . honey. Bee. Somethin’.” His eyes drifted closed.

“What?” Gary dragged out the vowel.

“I dunno.”

Gary’s brief chuckles were breathy, puffs of air skirting over Mark’s mouth and he leaned forward, trying to catch more breath, but instead their noses bumped.

“Sorry,” he whispered, because what the hell, he couldn’t be doing that, not with Gary.

“S’okay.” More breath; warm and soft. “You know that poem? Er, for want of a nail?” Mark hummed to show he knew what he was talking about. “For want of a nail the shoe . . . got lost, and then they lost the war. Something like that.”

“Yeah.” The darkness of closed lids started to grow. He nuzzled Gary’s nose with his.

“Sometimes I think my life’s that way. One thing went wrong, and now I’m here.” Gary’s nose budged his. “I think I’m supposed to be somewhere else; something else.”

He opened his eyes, but Gary’s were closed. As tired as he was, something stirred in his chest; he couldn’t pinpoint what, but it stirred and twisted, and made sense. Made so much sense he wanted to wake up and grab Gary; hold his face and scream _I know, I know what we’ve missed,_ but he couldn’t. He could only stare at Gary’s face, relaxed and a bit slack, eyes moving beneath his lids, and say; “Yeah. Me too.”

“I think . . . .” Gary murmured, eyes still closed. “I think you do.”

Mark tried to keep his eyes open; tried to think of how to articulate whatever it was that twisted in his head, the words or memory or _something,_ but his eyes dropped closed and what fell out instead was; “I love you.”

Even seconds from sleep regret reared its head and guilt and apology. Gary said nothing; just breathed and Mark had to work his mouth twice before he asked; “You awake?”

Gary said nothing. He didn’t move. Breath stirred Mark’s mouth and chin.

“I love you,” he repeated into the safety of Gary’s sleep, and let his own take him.


	10. Is It The Way That We're Feeling Now?

Mark awoke the way he’d fallen asleep; in tiny increments. Soft, faraway words drifted in and out of his conscious; slipping into half dreams and pulling him awake until he lay on his bed, eyes closed but sunlight visible through his lids, and the low volume television playing just loud enough for him to hear that Gary was watching some kind of sitcom, but he didn’t know which one. Gary chuckled from behind him and Mark opened his eyes a slit.

He faced the London horizon, a blue sky with enough clouds to dull the sun. Smiling, he closed his eyes again to soak in the post-sleep calm. When Gary laughed again, he turned onto his other side to look at him. Gary had piled his pillows so he could recline against them, one arm behind his head while the other tapped his thigh in no discernible pattern. The blankets were pushed down to his ankles. The rest were wrapped around Mark.

“What time is it?”

“About a quarter to ten.”

Mark winced. “Sorry I slept so much.”

Gary shook his head, eyes fixed on the telly. “Don’t worry about it, it’s vacation. You can sleep in much as you want. I didn’t wake you did I?”

Mark propped his head on his palm, elbow resting into the mattress. “No.”

Gary finally turned to face Mark. He smirked. “You’ve got some terrible bed-head.”

“Least I’ve got hair.”

“Aimin’ a bit low there Marky, don’t you think?”

“Low? Is that a comment on my height?”

Gary scoffed and rolled his eyes, but his pulled-tight lips proved he was trying to stop himself from smiling. Mark grinned at him.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep on your bed.” Gary shifted on the bed and cleared his throat.

He remembered telling Gary how he felt about him as he fell asleep and his heart lodged in his throat. _Oh shit._ “No, it’s all right, really. I don’t mind at all. So, uh, what’s the last thing you remember before you fell asleep? What were we talkin’ about?”

“Oh, um . . . Yeah, I got a bit maudlin, didn’t I? With that poem.” He looked at the telly and rubbed his eyebrow, effectively blocking his face from Mark’s vision. “You know if you could just pretend I didn’t say any of that, it’d be great.”

Relief washed over him. “No need to apologise, Gaz. If it helps . . . .” He bit down on his lip. He idly drew on the mattress with his finger, eyes following the movements. “I feel the same way, ‘bout meself.”

“Mark . . . .” Mark pulled his eyes back to Gary, who worked his mouth but no words came out. His licked his bottom lip, then tilted his head. “Did you call me a honeybee?”

Mark plopped onto his back and laughed at the ceiling. “No, I said--I said your voice, I meant that you sounded really good. That your voice was like honey, I didn’t--I was tired, all right?”

Gary, still half-reclined, smiled. “Well if my voice is like honey, then yours is crumpled satin.”

His heart lodged in his throat again, but for entirely different reasons. “Did you really just say that?” he asked as incredulously as he could, even if Gary’s voice and words fluttered in his chest.

“Shut up, honeybee.” Gary grabbed a pillow from behind him. Mark raised his arms to block it off, but the pillow hit him in the face anyway. He laughed into it and laughed harder when Gary hit him with it a second time.

* * *

Despite being overcast, it was comfortably warm; perhaps only in comparison to the scorching weather they’d had until last week, though. 25° was much better than 32°. The clouds had a nice coverage and the air smelled of rain though none had fallen. Children chased each other around their parents and couples held hands, while Mark and Gary strolled beside each other, arms bumping every now and then.

It had taken them awhile to actually get up and get going. The impromptu pillow fight derailed into the two of them chasing each other around, tickling and squealing with laughter. It wasn’t until Mark had tackled Gary to the bed they hadn’t slept on and viciously dug into his sides while he shrieked beneath him, face bright red, that housekeeping had knocked on the door and yanked them back into reality. They took turns dressing in the spacious bathroom and ordered room service. It wasn’t until noon they’d left their room.

Gary wore the maroon shirt they’d bought last week. He’d tried to leave the hotel with every button done, but Mark had stopped him in the lobby and popped free the collar and the top chest button. He figured if Gary felt that uncomfortable with it, he’d do it up again. As of yet, he hadn’t.

“I was thinkin’ . . . .” Mark paused to lick his vanilla ice cream.

“Yeah, honeybee?”

“I was thinkin’,” he began again with a sideways glare at Gary, “about what I said last night. About you bein’ able to try again. I really think you could.”

“Oh c’mon, who’d want to buy music from a grump like me? They let me go, no harm no foul. Was nothin’ but a few hit wonders. I gave ‘em what they needed and no more. Now look at me, I’m a batty old fart.”

“But listen,” he pressed, and talked over whatever Gary had opened his mouth to say, “I have my own label. That’s why I went bankrupt. It’s how I produced How the Mighty Fall. Not to, well, _assume,_ but you’ve got money, right? Maybe you could, I dunno. Help me out a little.”

He licked his ice cream and walked along, waiting for Gary to say something. Gary bit down on his lip. He looked around the area, mostly away from Mark. He regretted bringing it up, but it was out there now; he couldn’t take it back.

Either Gary was excited about the elephants, or he only saw it as an escape, because moments later he was heading towards them. Mark followed quietly, mentally smacking himself for mentioning it. It was a stupid idea, anyway. Even if Gary wanted to get back into music, why would he try his label? It hadn’t done him any good, why would it help anyone else?

“Y’know, I’ve had this dream, this fantasy, for years, of riding into a concert on an elephant.”

Mark furrowed his brows. “Me too.”

Gary leaned against the railing overlooking the habitat, a grin on his face. Maybe he really _did_ like the elephants, then. “Just riding in on one, singing, the whole works. Of course you’d have to be _massive_ to do that, _thousands_ of fans. Just picture it, though. They’d talk about it for years.”

He _had_ pictured it. He’d dreamt about it; spent forever thinking about how it could make sense, worked an entire theme around it, even. Of course it wasn’t a real, living elephant in his head, but still. “I’ve literally thought about that before,” he insisted, because he wasn’t sure Gary really _got_ it. Then again, he wasn’t even sure he did, either.

Gary stared at the elephants; really stared, hard. They weren’t doing anything interesting, simply walking. Singing on the back of one while it walked to the stage, singing to the audience around them, filled his head. He joined Gary in leaning against the rail, the song from that particular dream playing in his head.

“You’re in it, the dream,” Gary said.

“You’re in mine, too. Howard’s there. And Jay.”

Gary smiled. “Can you imagine? What it would’ve been like, if I’d been in the band though? Christ, I would’ve scared off all your fans. Run screaming in the opposite direction.”

Mark smacked his arm. “C’mon now.”

Gary nudged him with his elbow. “All jokin’ aside, d’you think we’d be here now? If I’d been in the band. You think we’d be sat here at the zoo watchin’ elephants?”

The child elephant trotted along after the larger elephant, whose tail whipped back and forth. Mark watched as another adult elephant joined them, and the child’s tail started swinging excitedly. Why watching large, grey animals walk around and do nothing with Gary made him smile was a mystery, but it did. 

“I like to think so.”

They watched the elephants for five minutes before speaking again.

* * *

Seeing children rush to the monkeys was enough incentive to head there next. The children pulled on their parents’ hands to the squirrel monkeys, pointing and jumping because they were swinging on a branch as cutely as possible. A little girl giggled so hard Gary worried she’d choke; her older sister spouted off about their mating habits. Mark nudged Gary and jerked his head towards a little boy, who mimicked the monkeys to his parents' blushing embarrassment.

Gary couldn’t remember the last time he went to the zoo; furthermore, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d liked it. There had been a time when going to the zoo had filled him with wonder. That staring at the elephants felt as though he were travelling in time and gaping at the remnants of dinosaurs, massive and powerful and then, eventually, they became small, and boring. The monkeys made him laugh; now they became furballs that swung on branches. The reptile house had always seemed exotic and even a little creepy, but one day Gary realised it was cold, and smelled strange, and most of the time, the reptiles remained still behind glass.

He’s always attributed it to growing old. Zoos were magical for children, before they had grown to see the reality of the world, which was almost always pessimistic. Before they understood things like logic and how painfully ordinary everything on the planet truly was. They were young and naïve and he was mature and when you grow up, things just stop feeling beautiful.

What a fucking prat he’d been.

Being with Mark opened his eyes again, and it wasn’t just because he was standing beside him and laughing while the girl talking about mating habits was being shushed by her parents while she spoke about sexual intercourse in a loud voice. For the first time in his life, or at least that was how it felt, he had someone who really, truly appreciated what he wanted to do; that he loved music, and wanted to write it and sing it and that it was his biggest, most important, desire. Music was to him how most people talked about love and romance; marriage and children. It sparked life into him, and hope, and opened his eyes to the world around him. Made him see it as something more than just objects in space, existing with no real purpose or reason. Just living and moving and existing from one moment to the next. Nobody understood that; nobody truly looked him in the face and said they understood it was important to him, and meant it.

Yet, little Marky Owen, former pop star, could stand inches from him and tell him that his dreams were just as valid as everyone else’s. Someone who, knowing that he had once had a career (and a good one, too) that had petered off, could lie in bed beside him, dreary eyed and beautiful with the London skyline behind him, and say he should try again; someone to offer a label he’d gone bankrupt over if he ever wanted to take the leap. Someone who not only understood, but comprehended on a personal level what it was to be in love with music.

Mark had lost everything trying to make it; making music had run him into the ground, time and time again. He felt no shame in it. If anyone had any right to warn Gary against trying, or rail against the industry and remind everyone of how idiotic it would be to try, it would be him. Yet, he didn’t. Years of knowing that it was his obsession with music that had stopped him from forming any real lasting relationships with anyone or having any valid aspirations no longer mattered; truth or not, he could see a different perspective now. One where there was no shame in asking to sit through the rest of the song playing on the restaurant radio while his family shared a look that he pretended he didn’t see. One where there was nothing to go home berating himself for when he caught himself spouting off something technical about the composition and vocals of whatever had just played on the radio.

Spending hours cooped up in his house, avoiding the dining room and the studio, feeling a heavy cloud of guilt every time he put his hand to the keys of his piano so strongly he’d pull them away and shut the lid, had filled him with a sludge of misery so thick it coated everything around him. Children were naïve pre-humans who didn’t understand how important it was to take advantage of their innocence and zoos were a pointless spot of land to walk around and stare at animals who did nothing.

But now he knew that it wasn’t just okay to feel and need and love the notes and songs he felt around and inside him, it was fantastic. It was what he needed, and should be hearing and feeling. That was who he was, and damn anyone for thinking there was anything wrong with it.

He could hear the notes of a child’s rising laughter and the words he’d use to describe a mother’s blushing cheeks and a daughter’s insistence on talking about monkey penises, at this point likely because it annoyed her parents so much, and what melody he would use to describe how it felt to have Mark grab his hand and point at a monkey drinking his own urine.

And monkeys were suddenly funny all over again. Elephants were massive and reptiles mysterious and slinky and children beautiful, innocent wonders, and music something to celebrate, not hide away from in embarrassment.

“This was a good idea, Mark. Comin’ here.” He squeezed the hand still in his before letting go.

“I’ve always thought that seeing a monkey drink his wee was a good omen.”

“Well it’s certainly not a bad one.”

They ended up laughing more than the kids.

* * *

Strolling through the zoo underneath a cloud covered sky was relaxing. They ducked into the reptile house just in time to avoid the few minutes of rain. Mark talked about the iguana he used to have and Gary recalled its name, saying he must’ve somehow heard it from Allison or in an interview he’d overheard years ago. Mark discussed the differences between amphibians and reptiles and if Gary thought it boring, he didn’t show it. He talked about how alligators and crocodiles were the only reptiles to care for their young and that they were as old as the dinosaurs. It derailed from there into dinosaurs evolving into birds. Mark rambled about ravens and owls and hawks, and before long they were outside again, walking through tiny puddles and commenting on the smell of the air after rain and the brightness of the rainbow it created.

They stood quietly beside each other while watching the penguins. They slid and splashed and swam around while a child to the left of them asked if penguins were really birds since they couldn’t fly, and a man to the right of them talked about their courting process to his girlfriend. Mark listened to the dad explain that there was a whole process of categorising animals into kingdoms and phylums and that being a bird isn’t solely dependant on one aspect of what is traditionally known for their kind as intently as he listened to the boyfriend talk of soul mates. Apparently he’d gone right into the subtext, hadn’t he? The girl seemed to be into it, though.

All of it felt as important as it was objectively irrelevant. How the elephants flapped their ears and swung their tails had no deeper meaning to anything Mark did that day. The monkeys playing and the mothering crocodiles didn’t matter. The life of penguins didn’t affect anything. Yet it all weighed on him as tangibly as Gary’s palm on his elbow when they left the exhibit.

The day’s importance (or lack thereof) swam through his mind as they sat on a damp bench and watched a lion clean itself. Being with Gary, away from work and life and responsibilities, wasn’t something he expected to do often, so he soaked it in.

“We came here a few times when I was a kid,” Gary said.

“Me too. It was different then. Bigger but . . . smaller, really, wasn’t it?”

Gary nodded. “I remember, Dad had to lead us off because the zebras were doin’ it. He laughed so much and Mum tried to act all put off and all, but she was laughing too. And my dad told us about the penguins, ‘cause everyone does at some point you know, and I remember thinkin’ it was so romantic; this idea that there was only one penguin. Just the one, and no matter what, no matter how long it had been or how far they’d had to go, they always found each other. I was a bit of a sap as a kid.”

“You haven’t changed much, Gaz.”

“Be quiet, honeybee.” Gary nudged him and Mark laughed. “What about you, Mark? Got any memories?”

“I remember thinkin’ that elephants and tigers and lions were all gonna be as big as dinosaurs, just these massive things, and bein’ a bit disappointed when the weren’t. And telling Daniel that the lion was gonna eat him so he started crying and Mum got angry with me.”

“You really are the older brother aren’t you.”

“It’s our job to tease our siblings, you know that right? We learn it in older brother school.” Gary rolled his eyes and scoffed, but he didn’t even bother hiding his smile. “We’d always go rent something after. Some movies. I rented _Pinocchio_ so much that the employees let me parents buy it from them.”

_“Cinderella.”_ Mark frowned at him, and Gary cleared his throat. “I loved _Cinderella_ when I was little. _Snow White_ and _Sleeping Beauty_ scared me. Well, _Pinocchio_ too. Lots of things scared me. But I loved that one a lot, and _Fantasia,_ obviously. Ian always teased me over _Cinderella_ though.” He shifted and rubbed his eyebrow.

“This is really embarrassing Gaz, but I auditioned for Celebrity Big Brother in 2002. I didn’t get in obviously, but my audition tape was like I was Cinderella. It was really pathetic. But I loved that one too. Guess I wanted a handsome prince to sweep me off my feet.”

Gary grinned. “Yeah, same.”

Mark threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

They stayed until the zoo closed at half past five. It rained fifteen minutes after they left, though not heavily. Gary took Mark to a restaurant--it wasn’t quite upscale, but much nicer than the diner. The lighting was lower and nearly all the patrons were clearly on dates. He didn’t see any children, either.

Gary discussed the differences in Elton’s later albums in comparison to his earlier ones, and how to tell the difference between a Bernie-penned song and one Elton wrote. Mark was certain Gary had been a few moments from pulling out a diagram when the waiter interrupted with dessert. Mark talked about Nirvana and the Foo Fighters and why he, particularly, wasn’t a fan of Dave Grohl despite his origins, and he nearly pulled out a pie chart himself, as deeply as he discussed it. Gary paid as much attention as Mark had paid him, which was refreshing because he knew he could go on and on.

Mark tried to convince Gary to split the bill, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Mark insisted on paying for the tip and Gary relented, though possibly only to placate him because Mark had been getting really stubborn. “You spend too much on me,” he muttered on their way out of the restaurant, the rain still lightly falling.

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.” Even if he wouldn’t admit it, it bordered on making Mark feel a bit like a charity case. He couldn’t afford it so he really shouldn't argue about it because there wouldn’t be a way for him to actually go through with the payment, but he couldn’t help feeling awkward.

“You can take me out sometime, then. Even it up a bit.”

“I think I will.”

They listened to Peter Gabriel on the way back to the hotel, though by the time it had stopped raining they weren’t discussing him anymore and instead the importance of cultural influence and whether the impact certain genres and musicians had on generations really made up for what they lacked (which, in Gary’s opinion, was usually talent) and whether being unknown but technically superior meant much at all, if it didn’t reach an audience. Gary was damn adorable when he got passionate about anything, especially music. Mark couldn’t help but agree that there was mystery lacking in today’s music that they’d grown up on as children, and how he wished people could bring it back.

“It just proves, though, that music can really shape people, really affect them and society. Think about disco, and the way it shaped our generation, and how we listened to music or rather, well, used it. Started being more about dancing to it than listening. Well, and when Elvis came around, it started being more about the musicians themselves instead of the music--which is how boybands work, you know that.”

Mark shut the door and hurried to catch up with Gary. “Well I dunno Gaz, did the music shape us, or did we influence what made it to the radio? Maybe we shape it, not the other way around. Products go where the money goes, y’know. There has to be demand first before anyone can supply anything’.”

Gary nodded. “True, that. Could be that it’s not that simple, though. It might be a bit of both; we change it, it changes us. Maybe we--”

“Excuse me,” a woman timidly interrupted, “but are you Mark Owen and Gary Barlow?” She wore a bright yellow sundress and, although it wasn’t raining anymore and she was dry, it was apparently chilly enough for her to have goose pimples up her arms. Her black hair was up in a bun with yellow ribbons in it. It looked like something a child would wear, though she was well into her thirties.

“That’s us, right honeybee?”

Mark didn’t even bother glaring this time. “Of course. How are you today?”

“I’ve been having the most spectacular day. My boyfriend proposed and he’s getting a room for us right now, but I just--it’s so weird, but I’ve been thinking about the both of you a lot, recently. I even dug out my old cassettes and listened to ‘em. This is so weird. This day just keeps getting better!”

“Thank you very much.” Mark bowed a little.

“Congrats on the engagement.” Gary shook her hand.

“I hope this isn’t weird for you, but do you mind if I take a picture with you both? It would mean so much to me.”

Mark and Gary shared a look. Although they weren’t soaked they’d been in the rain long enough to be visibly wet. Mark was sure his fringe was stuck to his forehead and Gary’s face glistened with water. They shrugged at the same time.

She fished around in her purse. “Oh I can never find my iPhone, the bloody thing,” she grumbled before chuckling nervously. “You know I actually met my boyfriend on a Gary Barlow forum about ten years ago. So weird I’d meet you the day he proposed. And we were thinking about using a Take That song for the first dance. This is just so strange, but it’s great.”

A flood of warmth crashed over Mark. He knew that Take That hadn’t put out many worthwhile hits, though even he had to admit a few songs did have an emotional impact. Though they were popular in the nineties, he wouldn’t say that they had any sort of cultural significance or impact, nor the talent to make up for it, and yet he’d had more people within the past few months approach him than he had in a decade.

“So are you here together?” she asked, pulling free her iPhone with a grin.

“It would be too much of a coincidence if we weren’t, honestly,” Gary said. “Here, I’m tallest.” He took the iPhone.

She stood in between them and Mark put his hand on the small of her back, sliding his shoulder and cheek close to hers. Gary pulled the phone outward and facing them, scooting closer to her. He put his hand on Mark’s.

He snapped the picture and they all stepped away from each other. She thanked them and shook their hands, and Mark, though he tried to keep eye contact, kept sliding his focus to Gary, and the way his cheeks were pink and his smile lit up his whole face.

“So are you two working together?” she asked as she put her iPhone back in her purse.

“No, we’re just here together,” Mark answered, smiling at her.

“That’s a shame. I always thought you two would work well together, because you’ve got the higher register voice and yours is lower. Like, I think it would harmonise really well together.”

“Oh we’ve sung together,” Gary said, nodding. “And you’re right, but no, we’re not . . . we’re not working on anything.”

“Hmm. Well maybe you should. Anyway, I have to go--you don’t mind if I tweet this do you?” They both shook their heads. “Thank you, again. Really, this is--this is just so amazing. Thank you.”

With that, she hurried off, jogging towards a man who waited by the hotel doors. Mark couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about before she interrupted, so instead he walked alongside Gary in silence, grinning.

* * *

Even though it was warm for being nearly eight, nobody was in the outdoor pool the hotel provided. Then again, it had rained off and on throughout the day, and the skies were still a dismal grey. Mark wore grey swimming trunks and Gary had black ones that went all the way to his knee and the pink shirt he’d worn to bed the night before.

Instead of dipping his toe in and walking in slowly, Mark jumped right into the deep end despite it being cold, and splashed at Gary (who sat on the edge only soaking his legs) before he just rolled his eyes, grabbed Gary’s hand, and pulled him into the water. Gary pushed Mark under the water in revenge.

They splashed and dunked each other until the water stopped feeling cold. It took a long minute of persuasion, but Mark managed to convince Gary to take off his pink shirt, which led to yet another round of dunking and splashing and half-wrestling, wet skin slapping and sliding against each other, eyes stinging and trying not to make it too obvious that his nose burned with water when Gary caught him by surprise from underneath, yanking him hard by the crook of his knee.

Mark repaid him moments later by swimming behind him, then leaping up, wrapping his arms around Gary’s waist, and plunging him face first into the water, his own face pressed into Gary’s pale back. Under the water, Mark pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade before letting go and breaking the surface to breathe; he doubted Gary noticed what he’d done, since he’d been flailing around the whole time.

“You’re such a twat,” Gary spluttered through his laughter.

Drops of rain hit Mark’s arm and head. Tiny ripples plopped along the surface of the pool and Mark pushed his wet fringe from his face to look upward at the dark sky. Somehow he’d lost track of time and awareness of his surroundings. Light emanated from the pool itself, filling it with a blue glow, but the clouds obscured everything else. It fell quicker, though still lightly. A breeze stirred against his skin. He shivered unwillingly. 

“We should probably head inside.” Mark swam over to the edge and pulled himself onto it, sitting with his legs in the water.

The water lapped onto the edge, cold droplets splattering his skin and the cement beside him. Gary swam towards him, through the sheet of rain and bits of water splashing around him, but instead of pulling himself onto the edge, he settled in between Mark’s knees.

His face was level with Mark’s groin, face and hair wet, lopsided grin chattering slightly. Mark swallowed. Hard. Gary placed a hand on each knee, pruney palms squeezing gently. Something in the back of Mark’s mind clicked, familiarity starting to chip away into memory, but it was hard to concentrate with the way Gary slid his hands up his thighs until his fingers brushed the bottom of Mark’s trunks.

Mark was an idiot for being surprised when, two seconds later, he found himself submerged in water.

He broke the surface, coughing and laughing but disappointed. Of course Gary wasn’t flirting with him; he was straight. Or was he flirting with him, using Mark’s feelings, to get him off guard and pull him into the pool? 

Gary stood beside the pool now, laughing openly and loudly. Rain fell heavily now, long, hard sheets of it pouring all around them. Lightning flashed and Gary stopped laughing immediately, staring at the sky. “We should probably go inside,” he shouted over the thunderclap that followed.

Mark swam over to the edge and placed his hand on it, before slipping back into the pool. “Mind giving me a hand?” he asked, sticking his hand in the air and gesturing for Gary to grab it. 

Gary bent down and clasped his hand. 

Mark smirked. 

Gary’s eyes widened right before Mark pulled as hard as he could. Although he got the full brunt of him right in the chest, it was worth it to hear Gary’s scream get swallowed by the splash. Mark fell into the water too, Gary’s body on his and pushing him further down, and Mark’s laughs turned into air bubbles floating past their heads, the sound of them muffled and his eyes stinging with chlorine, but he kept them open to see Gary’s face split into a smile and his own air bubbles joining Mark’s.

He ran out of air but he remained still, suspended in the blue, glowing pool, chest-to-chest with Gary, and eyes locked together despite how much it burned. Gary blinked and pushed away to the surface. Mark followed, his lungs aching.

Thunder clapped and he smirked at Gary. Gary pointed at him. “You really are a twat!” He gave him a friendly push, though not enough to even budge Mark.

“You started it!” Mark pushed him back, although for some reason his hands stuck to Gary’s slippery chest.

“No, _you_ did when you pulled me in the first time!” His large hands settled on Mark’s waist, thumb grazing over his tattoo.

They were deep enough in the pool where Mark had to stand on the balls of his feet to keep his shoulders out of the water, which was suddenly freezing. The rain didn’t warm it up any, either. Yet he didn’t move; slid his hands across Gary’s chest and dipped under the water before sliding up again. He moved closer and Gary’s held his side tighter. Gary shook as hard as Mark’s insides shivered and skin jumped and glided closer, pulling Mark so they were chest-to-chest. Gary’s abdomen was like ice against his and Mark’s teeth chattered, rain slapping the pool and thunder rolling far in the distance. Mark slid his hand up and behind Gary’s head, fingers slipping between his thin strands of soaked hair. Whatever had seemed familiar while Gary bobbed between his knees, smiling devilishly, filled Mark’s head again, whirring and clicking.

“Hey.”

Mark jerked away from Gary and lightning lit up the sky, thunder clapping hardly a second later.

A man stood at the gate leading in the pool. “We’re shutting it down for the night. Time to get out.”

Mark and Gary pulled themselves out of the water and the sharp rain and cold breeze hit his skin. He folded his arms across his chest and hurried toward the gate, wet feet slapping the cement. Neither of them brought towels so they didn’t bother stopping.

It wasn’t until they made it to the lift, teeth chattering loudly and breathing shaking, that Gary said; “Oh shit I left me shirt.”

“Too late to get it now.”

By the time they made it to their room, Mark’s toes were so cold they hurt. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms and stared out the window. Dark, grey London peered back at him, his blankets inviting and soft.

Gary grabbed his suitcase and went into the bathroom. A second later he poked his head out and threw a towel at Mark. Mark dried himself off quickly and dressed into his pyjamas.

Gary came out in just his grey sweats, rubbing his arms. Mark practically hugged himself to warm up, so he went over to his bed and got under the covers, listening to the rain patter against the window and intensely aware of Gary’s bare chest in his peripherals. Gary put his iPod in the iHome that was on the stand between both beds, music filling the room.

Without asking or hesitating, Gary got into the bed with him. “Bloody freezing.”

Mark could’ve said any number of things to make him go to the other bed. “I know,” wasn’t one of them.

Gary scooted closer and Mark furrowed his brows, but didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to stop him, though the way he was acting confused Mark. He was certain that they were about to kiss in the pool had that man not interrupted them, and even if it was just a ploy to pull him into the pool, Gary had been giving him sexual vibes with the way he slid his hands up his thighs. It was either that or he faked it to trick him, and Gary wasn’t that cruel, was he? Beyond that, Gary had been a bit too friendly at the zoo, even.

Mark leaned slightly into Gary. Just enough for their shoulders to touch, and stared at the ceiling, waiting to heat up. Gary didn’t pull away. He even pushed into Mark, though perhaps he was seeking warmth.

Once Upon A Dream from _Sleeping Beauty_ played. Gary sung quietly, hitting Aurora’s notes as perfectly as she hit them. “I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar, a gleam,” he sang louder.

When Phillip’s part started, Mark joined. Mark moved his hand to rest on Gary’s soft, bare stomach. Gary wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Gary joined the song again as Aurora did to finish out the rest of the song. The way Gary’s voice sounded against Mark’s, swelling and harmonising, really did sound wonderful. Even Mark couldn’t deny that, and he hated his voice.

“And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem, but if I know you, I know what you’ll do. You’ll love me at once the way you did, once upon a dream,” they finished, though Gary carried the final note out a little longer than Mark did.

Something from Passenger played next, and Gary hummed to it briefly, though drifted to a stop not long into the song.

“Thought you said you didn’t like _Sleeping Beauty.”_ Mark’s fingers stroked underneath Gary’s navel gently.

“I said it scared me when I was little. We weren’t allowed to watch it ‘cause it gave me nightmares for a few years. I think Mum was a bit upset when it stopped bothering me, to be honest.”

“She didn’t like it?”

“She isn’t . . . a huge fan of Disney.”

Mark turned his head so he could see Gary. “She doesn’t like Disney?”

“Oh she does, she likes ‘em, she just isn’t really . . . fond of how often there’s only one parent, you know. Lots of dead parents, or single parents, or you never see one of ‘em.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.” His position started to hurt his neck, so he propped his jaw on his hand, lying on his side. Gary put both his hands behind his head. “You met my mum. Like I said, she’s very . . . _traditional._ Her and my dad met young, they were high school sweethearts. It was always a source of pride for them, y’know, that they were the only two who were still together every reunion they went to. They had me and Ian, they were churchgoing, Mum took care of us at home and Dad worked a lot. That’s how they were, and that’s how they think everyone should be. I’ve heard so many talks about how divorce is too easy nowadays, and that it’s a disgrace that people would get divorced and put their kids through that. They . . . looked down on divorce and single parents; said that it wasn’t good for the children.”

“Well that’s not true.”

“Oh I know, believe me. I know.” Gary cleared his throat. “I’ve never told anyone this before, but when I was in school, this is so stupid but I, um. I was always jealous of my friends who had step dads or divorced parents. And it’s not ‘cause of the extra presents, it was the fact that they didn’t have a mum and dad.”

“Did your parents not get along?”

“No my parents were great, really. I have a song, Nobody Else, it’s about them. Even if they were, um, old fashioned, they were good parents and they loved each other. There was no reason for them to divorce, I just . . . wanted it.”

“Maybe you just wanted something less traditional.”

Gary smiled softly. “Maybe.”

Mark returned the smile, then fell to his back, closing his eyes and listening to the soft music that came from Gary’s iPod and the pattering of rain against the window. Gary hummed beside him and the blankets enveloped him, smooth and warm, with the perfect sheets and soft mattress sinking him further into relaxation. “Been a great day,” Mark commented, opening his eyes to the dark room. The lamp beside them had been on when he closed them; Gary must’ve shut it off.

“It really was.”

Mark turned to his side so he could stare out the window. It still rained, water rushing down the glass. “It’s nice to finally see some rain again, though.”

“Was bloody hot, wasn’t it?”

The mattress shifted beneath Mark and the iPod shut off. Gary settled behind him, chest touching his back, and weight on the pillow behind his head. Mark frowned as he contemplated the watery scene before him.

“Gary?”

“Hmm?”

All he had to do was ask if he was flirting. Either he’d say he was, or he wasn’t.

“Are you sleeping here again?” He just couldn’t bring himself to ask.

The mattress shifted. “I can um, I can leave, sorry I wasn’t think--”

“Wait.” Mark turned onto his back, and Gary looked at him, half sitting with one leg off the bed. The blankets slid down his chest, the shadow of rain falling crisscrossing against his pale skin. “You can stay if you want. Was just asking.”

Gary settled on the bed. Mark turned on his side to face the window and leaned into him, back-to-chest. “This okay?”

“Yeah. Is it okay with you?”

“Mm-hmm.” The vibrations against the back of Mark’s head meant they were closer than he’d thought.

He should mind. He should be unhappy about the mixed signals he may have been inventing in his mind, but straight men didn’t sleep in the same bed as gay men that had asked them out on a date, did they? Even when he and Rob shared a bed, it was always much larger and further apart; they weren’t practically cuddling, soaking in each other’s warmth. There also hadn’t been the option of another bed in the first place.

“London really is beautiful.”

“You lived here before you came to Manchester, right?” Gary’s words vibrated into Mark’s hair.

Mark bit on his lip and pushed back into Gary. “I wasn’t wrong.”

“What?”

“I said I was wrong. That I thought my . . . friend was gay, and he wasn’t. We went places together, spent the night with each other, flirted, for months. One night, and we were completely sober, he was takin’ me home after we went to a local band concert. I kissed him and we ended up goin’ inside, havin’ sex. I woke up a few hours later, caught him trying to sneak out. I asked what he was doing, and the next thing I know he--” He remembered the flash of white and the sudden pain in his eye; nails digging into his arms and being shoved against a wall. “And then he told everyone that I was harassing him and; ‘you know how _they_ are, always trying to _convert_ everyone.’”

He’d been sacked, out on the street after years of hard work and loyalty. He’d worked there longer than the store manager had, and in the end, it hadn’t mattered because the manager’s son’s word was law. He was lucky that was all that had happened to him. Now here he was, sleeping in bed with a supposedly straight man, too afraid to ask if he was flirting.

“Why’d you lie?”

Mark shrugged. “It hurt less to be in the wrong.”

Gary put his hand on Mark’s shoulder and squeezed. It was a brief touch, but when his hand was gone the heat still remained.

Mark stayed awake for what seemed like hours, though he had no way of telling without turning from his spot to check the time. He didn’t want to move. Soaking in Gary’s warmth, listening to him breathe and watching the rain brush the window as waves, felt almost like a dream; one where he knew he would wake up if he focused or thought too hard on his surroundings. He wanted to hold onto it as long as he could. If he moved, it would shatter.

Sleep didn’t take him until the rain stopped.


	11. Never Thought That Anyone Could Change My View

Waking slowly with his face pressed into his pillow and an arm draped across his back with a bright, sunny sky warming his face was something Mark could get used to, if he had the chance. He hadn’t realised how accustomed he was to waking up with a stiff back until he no longer had to sleep on an old mattress. The weight of someone’s arm over him wasn’t as constricting as he had told himself it had been after his last break-up. Pufts of air hit his shoulder and moved up to his neck, a sleepy moan following a few seconds later. Chlorine wafted in the air, not pungent but just strong enough to make his cock stir and push against the mattress.

Mark opened his eyes with a frown. That was a weird reaction.

His dream came back to him in gentle lulls. Helping Gary over a fence before climbing it himself, both of them giggling as they dipped into a dark pool; Gary’s smooth, cut chest (more reminiscent of how it had looked beneath the open shirt on the black and white cover of his first album than how it looked now) underneath his hands and lips, moonlight glinting off his bleached hair. Gary lifting him to the edge of the pool, wet mouth trailing down his stomach, mouthing his dolphin tattoo--

Mark cleared his throat and tried to push the memory of his dream away. He was already stiffening up, and he wasn’t ready to get out of bed. Gary let out another sleepy moan, arm moving down his back a little as he shifted. Sparks tingled down Mark’s spine.

The way Gary’s hand had slid up his thigh and tugged down Mark’s Speedo, springing free his cock, was stupidly vivid; he cursed his brain, and he cursed the way he pushed into the mattress gently when he remembered how it had felt nearly real to have Gary’s lips surround him, taking him into his hot, wet mouth. How it wasn’t much longer after that Mark has slid into the water, Speedo floating beside them as he lowered Gary’s, hoisting himself up and wrapping his legs around his waist, inserting--

There wasn’t any way staying in bed with an erection beside Gary would end smoothly, so he pulled himself from Gary’s arm and out of the blankets. He glanced at Gary, lying on his stomach with his arm outstretched, snoring lightly, and padded to the bathroom. He checked the time before he entered; it was just after eight.

He stripped and stepped into the shower, turning it on as hot as he could withstand. He wasn’t an idiot; it was obvious why he’d had that dream. It was no coincidence that Gary’s hands slid up his thighs the same way they had yesterday, or that when he’d slid into the pool, taking off their Speedos, that he’d slid his hands up his chest and Gary had held his side, just as they had before the man told them they were closing.

He pressed one hand against the wall, steam rising and water descending, and used the other to grasp himself. He stroked and tugged, eyes closed and recalling the image of riding Gary; how their moans and the water slapping around them had sounded. How Gary had worried they’d be seen, but pressed Mark’s back against the pool wall anyway and shoved deeper.

He came, thankfully quicker than he’d anticipated. He washed himself, scrubbing his body with soap and lathering his hair with shampoo. He washed the smell of chlorine away and took advantage of the heat the shower supplied him; much hotter than his at home could ever get, for much longer. The water that slid down his face and into his mouth didn’t have the vague taste of copper, either, because the hotel didn’t have hard water and even if they did, they could clearly afford water softener unlike his landlord.

He brushed his teeth and wrapped a towel around his waist; he hadn’t thought to grab his clothes before going to shower.

He walked out of the bathroom, steam whooshing out around him and the hotel room cool in the comparison, and slammed right into Gary.

“Sorry,” they both blurted. Gary didn’t have a shirt on, and Mark was too embarrassed to look him in the face, so he focused on the sparse hairs across his wide chest.

He tried to step around him at the same time Gary did, and ended up getting in each other’s way again. They moved in front of each other two more times before Gary grabbed Mark’s shoulder and moved him aside, then walked into the bathroom. When the door shut, Mark dropped his face into his palms and moved to his suitcase.

* * *

With everything they’d brought with them beside the door, and a light breakfast from room service in their stomachs, there was nothing stopping them from leaving. They had twenty minutes until it was time to checkout, and Gary didn’t want to go. They’d had a wonderful time together, but he wanted more. Going home from LA had been easy; he hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t looked back or tried to make an excuse to spend another day, even though he had no obligations and could’ve moved there had he wanted. Yet a simple weekend with Mark and knowing they had to drive back home felt more like he was leaving something behind.

Going home meant going back to his daily routine and seeing the same people every day, over and over. The mundane repetition he’d once found familiar and comforting loomed ahead of him like a cage. 

They’d been quiet as they got ready to leave and they ate, though it didn’t hang awkwardly around them. It was a comfortable silence, and by the looks of it, Mark hadn’t noticed that he’d had a hard-on when he’d bumped into him coming out of the shower. Then again, Mark had only been wearing a towel and probably more concerned with that than the front of Gary’s sweats. The fact that they weren’t uncomfortable in the silence after he’d finished showering spoke volumes about how secure he felt with Mark.

“I was thinking,” Gary said as they went down the hallway towards the lift, “that we do sound good together.”

“I think so too.”

“Well I thought, you know, I’m not saying that we should go out and pump out a new album or anything, but . . . we could try, I dunno. Singing together, seeing how we work, move on from there? I enjoyed it the last time we did.” He felt Mark’s eyes on him, but he kept looking ahead.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

It wasn’t a yes to Mark’s idea with the label, but it wasn’t a no, either. As much as Gary would love to write music again, he wasn’t naïve and he wasn’t ready to throw himself into either decision wholly. He wasn’t even brave enough to accept a date, or make the first real move, in regards to Mark; how could he be ready to open himself up to a world of insults hurled towards him on Twitter and in the press about his weight and how he was a has been clutching at his past? He’d flirted with Mark as much as he felt comfortable, and nothing had come of it; sure, he could’ve pushed further, but the idea scared him still. Once he said yes, to either music or Mark, there was no going back. Maybe, right now, he needed that safety net, or he needed someone to hold his hand and walk him through it. It had been so long since he’d set foot in that world that maybe he forgot how to navigate it.

When they stepped out of the hotel into the car park, an ambulance sat by the curb, lights flashing though there were no sirens. A police officer shooed away onlookers from the stretcher and the crying man beside it. The woman on it wore a bright yellow dress with black hair; Gary caught a flash of red, though where he wasn’t sure because the paramedics pulled a sheet over her body.

He froze in his spot and Mark stood still beside him, staring. They were a good eight feet from the crowd being reprimanded, but he’d seen who was on the stretcher clear as day. Mark swore quietly beside him as the crowd dispersed, the crying man being led into the back of the ambulance with a blanket over his shoulders.

“What happened?” Mark asked a woman who headed towards the hotel entrance.

She shook her head. “Suicide. Tragic, really.” She clucked her tongue and kept walking.

Gary didn’t move, but neither did Mark. Suicide? Gary hadn’t seen her for long so he couldn’t possibly make any real judgement about who she was, but she’d seemed so happy. She’d said so herself, how great the day had been; how she’d been proposed to, how they’d planned the songs for their wedding, how she’d met her fiancé, and how meeting the two of them in particular was so fitting. He didn’t know anything else about her, though; was she drunk? Tired? Did she have issues outside of her relationship with her husband? Maybe the idea of marriage scared her?

They walked to the car without a word.

* * *

It had taken an hour of listening to Mark’s iPod before either of them spoke; thankfully, not about the woman, but instead on the importance of music shaping generations and people, and whether that was more important than how good it was from a technical point of view, since they hadn’t finished that discussion the night before. The topic shifted from there to genres and bands, to using strings and computers and analogue recording. At one point Mark was gesticulating so hard that Gary had to pinch his lips closed to stop himself from laughing.

They talked about the importance of proper music in films and how too often the musical director picked a song for its popularity or tune rather than how relevant the actual song meaning was to the scene in the first place. The discussion headed straight into movies after that, and the themes of their favourites and how certain films had disappointed them while others pleasantly surprised them.

He didn’t go straight home when they made it to Manchester. They stopped to eat and Mark paid. The milkshakes were better than the burgers, and Gary had assumed the waitress was winking at him simply for the tip, but her number was scribbled on the receipt and Mark patted him on the back on their way back to the car.

Mark brought up Sandy, of course, and insisted that she fancied him. Gary shook his head and tutted; if Sandy liked him that way, why hadn’t she ever given him her number? Even still, Gary said he didn’t think of her that way, and Mark let the subject drop. 

He pulled into his garage beside Mark’s car. Shifting into park had a grim sense of finality to it. Vacation was over.

“Thanks for inviting me, Gaz. I had fun.”

Gary smiled. “Thanks for comin’. Wouldn’t have been the same without you.” He wouldn’t have gone without him, but Mark didn’t need to know that.

Gary popped the boot and they got out of the car. Mark grabbed his suitcase and his toiletries bag, and Gary grabbed his own luggage. Mark went to the boot of his own car and Gary idled beside him, trying to think of something to say, while he opened it and put the stuff away. There wasn’t much else they had to do except leave each other, so Gary walked towards the door leading into the kitchen while Mark stopped by the driver’s side. “Hey Gaz.”

Gary turned around and rearranged the duffel strap on his shoulder, one foot on the first step. “Yeah?”

Mark grinned. “I’m lookin’ forward to singing with you. We’ll talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we’ll talk tomorrow. So, I’ll see you then?”

He nodded. “See you then, Gaz.”

He wanted to say something else, something better. He wanted to at least go over and hug him, but he was getting into his car and Gary kept staring. It didn’t feel like enough. It was weak and fast and they’d shared a bed both nights; a simple, quick goodbye didn’t do their time together justice, but nothing came to mind. All he could do was wave as Mark reversed out of the driveway.

* * *

Gary’s house had been empty since Allison left, though if he were honest she hadn’t been here long or had much of a presence. It hadn’t been real, what they had. Before that had been Brian, and the months after he’d left had been hell. Spending hours wailing, drinking wine and eating food, refusing to leave the bed unless he absolutely had to, and pretending like he didn’t notice his parents’ weak smiles when they visited him, eyeing the dirty dishes on his coffee table and acting as if Ian’s more blunt questions regarding his bathing habits didn’t sting. How they hadn’t come to the conclusion Brian wasn’t just a roommate was beyond him, but it was amazing how easily people could erase what they didn’t want to see from their minds.

Or maybe they had, and didn’t want to talk about it.

It had been empty from then on, regardless of Allison, but it hadn’t _felt_ empty since. Coming back from vacation changed that. The news no longer faded into mere background noise, and instead irritated him with news stories about a high number of car crashes in the past month and fires in the south. It wasn’t until they had a brief discussion on the suicide rates skyrocketing that he turned off the telly and went to his laptop. He’d set up his music reviews to post while he was on vacation and received the amount of comments he’d expected, both hateful and complimentary alike. He replied to an email about pedals he’d been looking for and to Ian, who had asked for details on his vacation to London. He didn’t get too descriptive, but he covered everything important.

All the while he stared at his mobile, fingers twitching, wanting to text but it was too soon. They had spent so much time together, it would be clingy to text him now.

He checked Facebook to see Mark had tagged him in a post. As he rarely updated anything, it made him smile and Gary liked it. He’d gained over a hundred followers on Twitter, and apparently both he and Mark had trended over the weekend judging by the comments, though only Take That was trending now. Apparently the woman who had taken his picture had uploaded it to Twitter. She’d had a fashion blog, and from the looks of it nobody was aware she’d died yet.

Though now Gary understood why she’d asked before putting it on Twitter first, as she had mistaken them going to London together as being together romantically and tagged it barlowen. It was the perfect portmanteau. He only wished he’d have thought of it first, and that it were true. A few of the followers came from Robbie, apparently, who had followed him over the weekend too.

He spent fifteen minutes looking through his timeline until he realised the video everyone kept posting was of fifteen Japanese schoolgirls jumping in front of a train to their deaths, and decided he’d rather play the piano than hear anymore about that.

The emptiness bothered him; made it hard for him to concentrate on one thing. He played halfway through one song before settling on another, or played a piece he’d written through the first verse before deciding to work on something else flitting around in his head. When he couldn’t deny that playing piano wasn’t doing anything to alleviate his restlessness, he watched TV, but could only stay on one channel for a few minutes before switching the station.

He’d been alone for years, that was a given.

But on Tuesday, the thirtieth of July, he admitted he was lonely.

* * *

At a quarter to nine in the morning, Gary’s phone beeped. How the text alert managed to wake him up he didn’t know, but it did. Then again, he hadn’t slept well; constantly tossing and turning, reaching for a warmth beside him that wasn’t there. He dreamt of Mark sliding into bed beside him, caressing his chest and pressing kisses to his shoulder, so vividly that when he woke up every two hours it took him at least a minute to register that it wasn’t real.

When he was awake, all he could do was acknowledge the empty space beside him, the quiet house surrounding him, and the lack of anyone’s touch but his own. No pictures of a partner, no awards belonging to someone other than him; his own mugs, his own plates, furniture in the same place it had been since he’d bought it. No voice other than the actors on the telly, not even his own, because there was no reason to speak if there wasn’t anyone else around. Even when he did allow himself to play and sing, nobody heard it; he was forever critiquing his own pitching and tonal efficiency, or simply losing himself to the words, because nobody else could listen for him. 

He’d managed to convince himself it didn’t matter; he didn’t mind. That it wasn’t true, even--that he wasn’t lonely, not at all. He pretended that when he walked by the studio across from his room every morning, he didn’t recall why he’d made it in the first place, or when. There was a reason why he only set foot in the dining room when his mum and Ian were over, and he pushed the shame so deep into his stomach that it was almost as if the room itself hadn’t existed at all. He avoided acknowledging how alone he felt, and now that he let it hit him, he couldn’t stop. 

Suffice it to say, he hadn’t had a good night.

_Good morning Gaz!!!!_

He cracked a smile. If anything could cheer him up, it was that. 

_good morning marky_

_You mind if I come by for lunch?_

_I’d love it x_

It was Wednesday, which meant that he was going to get ready and walk to the diner. He swung his feet off the bed but froze as soon as his toes touched the carpet. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday he went to the diner for breakfast, except on the rare occasion he was too sick or he went later than normal. Wednesdays he had Carlo because Sandy had Wednesdays off and Mark wasn’t allowed to be his server. It was what he always did, and why not?

Except now he thought, why? Why go to the diner today? He didn’t know Carlo, he didn’t know who Carlo went home to, if he went home to anyone at all. Did he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? What did he do in his spare time? What programmes did he watch, what music did he like? When was the last time he went on vacation, and where? Did he have siblings? All he knew about Carlo was that he was in his early twenties, had a mocha-coloured complexion, dark eyes, and thick, wavy hair that Gary envied.

Furthermore, what about Sandy? As much as he did enjoy his little talks with her, all he knew about her was how she looked; long, brunette hair she kept pulled back, but he’d never paid enough attention to know what colour her eyes were. She was sweet, asked about his day, and occasionally make a remark about having insomnia, but he didn’t know anything else about her, even if she occasionally talked about her life. At least he enjoyed her, albeit completely one-sided, company, whereas he’d never cared either way with Carlo.

So why? Why go at all?

It hadn’t occurred to him before. He wasn't obligated to go. It wasn’t refusing to go out of anger, he wasn’t proving anything to anyone. He just didn’t have to go. It didn’t matter if he went or not. _There was no reason._

Somehow, it was freeing, the knowledge that he didn’t have to go to the diner on a Wednesday. It hadn’t felt constricting before, and yet, somehow, it had been. He could cook his own breakfast today, and afterwards, he may as well go shopping so he could cook lunch for Mark. He’d get to see Mark without going to the diner, and in a more meaningful way. If he went today, he’d only leave feeling let down because he hadn’t been seated in Mark’s area, and Carlo had made it clear last week what he thought about Gary showing.

Carlo had been looking out for Mark, and said that he wasn’t making it any easier for his friend. So why did that make Gary the bad guy? If he wanted to stand up to anyone, he should’ve said something to Jeannie, not him. Gary hadn’t done a damn thing to Jeannie that was rude; he always treated his servers with respect, and even if he hadn’t and he deserved the grudge she held against him, extending that grudge to Mark was wrong.

A weight lifted from his shoulders when he resolved to stay home. He cooked his breakfast and hummed while he did it. He ate in front of the telly, laughing at Jamie Oliver and excited to try out the recipe, then watched a rerun of Breaking Bad. The fact he didn’t have any bread but too much jam was funnier than it had any right to be and the prospect of having to go out to remedy that didn’t seem like a chore. Besides, unless he wanted to feed Mark biscuits, he’d have to go shopping anyway.

The diner had been a leftover habit from when he and Brian lived together; it had later become nothing more than a reason to get out of the house, because he could easily lock himself away. It wasn’t about the people. It wasn’t even about the action, itself. It was about avoiding inaction; moving to move, doing to do. Eventually it lost even that and turned into nothing more than a habit; something he did without a thought, without a want, and until Mark had shown, it had stayed that way.

Had it become an excuse to see Mark? As if their friendship were dependent on it? Seeing him without the diner had felt so much like admitting something he wasn’t ready for, but going on a vacation, together? He didn’t _need_ the diner to see Mark. He didn’t need it to do, or move, or live. He didn’t need it to speak to people; he could text Mark any time he wanted, call him even, and clearly spend time alone without stopping by the diner first. He wasn’t a customer who waved to Mark anymore than Mark was just a smiley, bright-eyed waiter to Gary.

They didn’t need car rides or scheduled trips to and from work. There wasn’t a social dependency between them; in order for them to be together, one or both of them didn’t have to be in a certain situation or place. When it had become more than that he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they it happened, and because of that, everything, even mundane tasks, became brighter.

* * *

Tea with Gary went smoothly, not that Mark would’ve expected anything else. They talked over their salad about their day; Gary had apparently been too busy shopping to stop by and Mark told Gary about how he’d had an hours-long conversation with Robbie yesterday afternoon about their vacation, which accounted for Robbie following Gary over the weekend. They discussed the terrible gridlock due to a three-car collision and whether or not the classic rock station needed to play less of the Rolling Stones.

Although he shouldn’t have, he kept count of every time Gary touched him; his knee, his shoulder, his arm. He kept track of how often he touched Gary in return, and how they’d sat close enough their thighs were pressed together, both on the same cushion despite how much room they had on the sofa. 

They talked and touched and laughed until Mark’s alarm went off to remind him to start driving back to work. He hadn’t set an alarm before so he’d explained to Gary that Sandy had given him the idea while Gary walked him to the door while he distractedly tried to shut it off.

It wasn’t until Mark had pulled away from the curb that he realised he’d hugged and kissed Gary goodbye on the way out.

Hands clutching the steering wheel and heart in his throat, he swore at himself. He simply hadn’t been thinking; he’d been caught up in trying to shut the alarm off and paying attention to how Gary reacted to mentioning Sandy; whether or not they walked closer together than was appropriate for friends. “We should sing tomorrow, after I get off work,” he’d said while Gary opened the door, palm against the small of his back.

“That sounds lovely. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’d hugged Gary, who’d hugged him back; nothing deep or clutching, or in any way overly affectionate, just a normal hug between friends, and then he’d pulled away and kissed his mouth. “See you tomorrow!” He’d waved over his shoulder while he rushed to his car. He hadn’t even seen Gary’s reaction.

Of course, it was perfectly normal to kiss someone goodbye, even as friends. A quick peck on the lips meant nothing. Granted, usually it was a kiss to the cheek unless it was a family member or close friend. Mark _was_ a close friend, or so he hoped, but Gary was straight and even still, it wasn’t generally accepted as normal behaviour for straight men to kiss gay men on the mouths, even as a greeting. What if Gary wasn’t okay with it? Then again, he’d been the one to initiate sleeping in the same bed over vacation. And it wasn’t anything abnormal, kissing a friend goodbye. It had been quick and he hadn’t lingered, though maybe it had been a touch softer than what he’d give a family member.

“You didn’t answer your mobile at all Monday,” John greeted the second Mark had clocked back in from lunch break.

He’d left it in the hotel room when they went to the zoo. He had noticed work had called when he’d checked, but he hadn’t cared. “I was out all day, I’d left it at home.”

John narrowed his eyes. “That’s great and everything, I’m glad you have _things_ you like to do, but one of our night crew waitresses called in and we needed it covered.” Mark opened his mouth to say something but no words came out; he simply blinked a few times and shut his mouth again. “Are you sure you left it and weren’t just ignoring the calls? Because Carlo had to cover both shifts and now I’ve got to pay him overtime.”

“Honest, John, I just left it. It was an accident.”

John pointed at him, mouth open, but Jeannie stepped beside him. “Stop it, John. You were on call, you could’ve come in and done it yourself. Nobody’s obligated to come in on a day off ‘cept who’s on call between you an’ me, and guess what? It was your turn.”

John’s eyes widened so much Mark worried they'd pop out of his skull and jammed his finger right into Jeannie’s sternum. “Listen here you little--”

Jeannie smacked his hand away from her. “Don’t touch me.” She stood up straight and pursed her lips. “We’ll talk about this in the break room. Go. Now.”

John stomped away, though before Mark could let out a sigh of relief, Jeannie turned to him. “I hope you had fun in London, but next time, maybe stay closer to home.” She spun on her heel and started in the direction John went..

“Wait.” She turned back to face him, arms folded and brows up her forehead. He narrowed his eyes at her. “I didn’t tell you where I went.”

She squinted at him. “Next time you go on hols, don’t trend on Twitter if you don’t want anyone knowin’. In fact, you shouldn’t be goin’ off without tellin’ us, anyway.” She stormed off, blonde, bum-length braid whipping back and forth with each step.

She wasn’t angry with Mark. She was angry with John. They’d been snapping at each other all day, enough where everyone had been avoiding the break room in fear of walking in on a screaming match. However, as much as her mood was influenced by their day-long argument, some part of her wasn’t lashing out against Mark, but against who he was vacationing with, and _that_ was uncalled for.

Despite that, the rest of the day went smoothly. Mark beat down the residual embarrassment from kissing Gary by the time he gave his first customer a glass of cranberry juice, and he’d stopped holding onto his irritation towards Jeannie sometime after he took a quick loo break to answer a text from Rob and a few from his family.

“Did you enjoy London?” Sandy asked while they both waited by the kitchen for their tables’ orders.

“Yeah, it was great. We went to the zoo; stayed at this really gorgeous hotel.”

Sandy leaned against the counter, and brushed an errant strand of brunette hair behind her ear. “So you and Gary are, er, _together_ then?”

“We _went_ together, we’re not . . . we’re not dating.”

“Oh right, of course. The . . . tweet was sort of. Suggestive.”

Mark frowned when he thought of the woman who’d taken their photo, but before he could say anything else the cook handed him the food for his table. Mark didn’t have a Twitter, mainly because he’d likely never use it because he never used the Facebook he’d made at Tracey’s insistence, but he understood what trending meant and how it worked. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being confused for a couple. Then again, he hadn’t felt entirely comfortable telling Sandy that they weren’t dating either, because it felt like there was a _maybe_ he could tack on, or a _but,_ though in the end he knew that it was the truth. They weren’t dating. As confusing as Gary could be, they weren’t dating, and Mark knew all too well what could happen if he pushed, especially since Gary had already turned him down.

“I fucked up,” Carlo grumbled a few hours later, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“Remember last week when Jeannie told you not to serve Gary? Well, I might’ve--I said some things to him, and he didn’t show today. I feel like such a cock.”

It hadn’t occurred to him that there’d been more to why Gary hadn’t come in than just shopping. As far as he knew, Gary hadn’t ever skipped a visit to the diner; he’d come in late once, but never not shown. “Well he was busy today, had to do a bit of shopping. He ran out of bread, plus we ate together during lunch break. I’m sure that’s all it was.” He patted Carlo’s shoulder once, though now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure he believed that was the full story.

“Nah, I still shouldn’t have said anything. You know he’s always been nice, I don’t get why she’s like that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Look, you’re not in the wrong here. It’s all her, y’know? Even earlier today she told me that I shouldn’t go off on vacation, but it’s only ‘cause she knew I was with him.”

“Yeah no shit. She wouldn’t shut up about it yesterday. Fucking angry about that, too. Look, I wanted the extra hours, but John had to throw a fuckin’ snit, got her all riled up, she started bitchin’ about Twitter. Christ, if it was such a big deal then maybe one of them should’ve covered the shift, not anyone’s fault that Nicole got sick.”

Jeannie came around the corner and her eyes fell on the two of them, leaning against the wall. She was too far away to have heard anything they’d said, but knowing her she’d be angry if they didn’t start walking around refilling glasses soon.

They both stopped leaning against the wall. Mark started towards his tables. “Hey Mark.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you quit smoking? I’ve been trying but I’m not doing too good.”

Mark faltered. He tried to remember the last cigarette he had, or what had happened that day. All he knew was that he just stopped buying packs--not intentionally; it just hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I don’t know. I’m just lucky, I guess.”

“Yeah no shit.”

They went to their separate areas. Nobody needed any refills, but while walking from one table to another, his memory snapped into place. The last time he’d smoked was during lunch break, the day he asked Gary out on a date. As soon as he’d made it home, he ignored the pack on his dresser. He hadn’t picked it up since.


	12. You're In A Room With A Rock Star

Knowing Mark was going to come over after work tomorrow for singing meant that Gary had to check all the equipment in the studio, even though there was no reason why it wouldn’t be up to par. Maybe it was only an excuse to use it. Either way, he recorded himself singing a song he’d written years ago, recorded it, and played it back. Everything sounded right and clear.

Nothing on the telly was interesting enough to keep his attention, so he sat at the piano in his living room and played. He’d been playing recently; a lot, actually, especially considering that he hadn’t touched in it years, except for the occasional four minute session here and there. However, sitting down and playing, for hours on end, fingers working out memorised notes and playing over sections he felt he was a tad rusty on until he’d smoothed out the kinks; working various songs into medleys, slowing down more popular upbeat pop tunes and adding effects so that he liked them better--that, he hadn’t done in so long he’d forgotten just how enjoyable it was. He warmed up his vocals before delving into songs he used to sing without hesitation, but soon enough he was hitting notes he used to pride himself on being able to hold for impressive lengths of time. Songs that he had only ever heard in his head sounded even better out loud and no part of him felt shame in admitting that.

It was after six that knocking interrupted his playing. At first he thought he’d imagined it, until the sharp rapping against his door came back, louder and quicker. 

He wasn’t expecting anyone, unless Mark changed his mind and wanted to come sing a day early. It was after work, and there’d been enough time for him to take a quick shower and change his clothes if he wanted. Besides, they’d had a pleasant tea, hadn’t they? Mark had even kissed him goodbye. Even if it was only a fast press of lips, nothing that would be inappropriate for friends really, Gary had blinked and stood still in shock, waving distractedly at Mark before closing the door, lips tingling and smile stretching across his face. Considering that Mum was watching Ian and Lisa’s kids so they could have a night alone together, it really couldn’t be anyone _but_ Mark. He opened the door with a grin.

It was Robbie Williams. 

He’d seen Robbie once, years ago and from afar. They’d been at some dinner, just a few weeks before Gary’s label decided not to negotiate a new contract with him. Whatever Robbie had done or said he couldn’t remember, but he left thinking that he was a prat so intensely he’d avoided nearly all his music. How much of that was due to Robbie being in Take That he didn’t know, but since he stood on Gary’s doorstep with a shit-eating grin on his face, perhaps it was time to reconsider his opinion.

After all, other than a few songs and some headlines about drugs, partying, and rehab a few years ago, he didn’t know anything about him and he _was_ Mark’s friend.

“Um,” Gary greeted eloquently.

“Fancy a ride?” He pointed over his shoulder at the limo idling beside the curb and waggled his eyebrows.

“Did I um. Am I missing something?”

“No, not really. I was just in the neighbourhood with a limo and a driver, figured you might wanna come out with us.”

“Us?”

“Me and Mark. You wanna come?” Gary looked down at what he was wearing; a white tee and jeans. “If you want to go change real quick you can, of course. I‘m in no hurry mate.”

“Yeah. Yes, right. Just let me grab my wallet--”

“Nah mate, I’m paying. Get ready. We’ll be waiting for you.” He playfully punched Gary on the shoulder and walked away.

Gary shut the door in a daze. It made sense, of course. Robbie was Mark’s friend, why wouldn’t he come by on occasion to visit? It wasn’t as if Gary hadn’t once been famous himself, to an extent. Still, the whole thing still seemed surreal. Even if Gary had once had albums out and fans and toured throughout Britain, Robbie Williams was massively famous at a level Gary had never even neared touching. Take That had been just another boyband (though, admittedly, more famous than Gary had ever been), yet Robbie skyrocketed to fame. He’d been bitter and envious over Take That, and maybe that bled into his dislike of Robbie too. Yet he was about to go hang out with him.

He hurried to his room and jerked open his closet. Even if he wasn’t one for fashion, he’d accumulated some nicer clothes over the years, though mostly for family get togethers or fancy restaurants for Allison, because he‘d always felt obligated to put forth extra effort in dating her to make up for the lack of actually loving her. Even if Robbie had said he wasn’t in a hurry he didn’t want to keep them waiting long, so he didn’t have much time to deliberate. He picked a green silky button up with a grey waistcoat. He couldn’t find the matching trousers, so wore black trousers because it was the closest in colour. He gargled with mouthwash because brushing his teeth would take too long and hurried down the stairs again. Before he left the door, he stuffed his wallet in his back pocket, even though Robbie had said he was paying. It never hurt to be careful.

The surrealistic nature of the situation hit him again when he saw the limo idling against the curb. It wasn’t just Robbie showing up on his doorstep that sat with him awkwardly. Everything about this, everything about his life, felt strange; as if at some point in time he’d gone to sleep and started dreaming, and he was just now clocking onto the fact none of it was real.

Fifteen years ago (or thereabouts) he’d seen the man he was about to spend time with and hated him for no other reason than he had what Gary had always wanted; the band he’d been turned away from, the audience, the fans, the music, and if Gary had had all those things he could’ve used them so much better. He was so much more deserving of it, much more talented. The reason this man was at his door, inviting him out, without any prior conversation or interaction of any form, was because Mark Owen was his friend and former bandmate, and Mark was Gary’s (only) friend. Somehow, someway, Mark had found his way to Manchester through a series of failures and black eyes to work at the one diner that Gary went to regularly. He ate there because of his own series of failures and heartaches and disappointments, and now they were all going somewhere together on a Wednesday night, two former pop stars (one less so than the other) with a bona fide rocker.

Were Gary inclined towards fate, he might describe his situation as such. Instead, he just shrugged off the feeling and got in the back of the limo.

Robbie sat with his back against the blacked-out partition, arms outstretched on the back of his seat and legs spread wide. Mark sat across from him, hair straightened, a long purple scarf, tight jeans, and a black V-necked shirt with what looked like neon purple paint splashes designing the front. Considering that Robbie wore large black sunglasses, a shiny-as-hell silver shirt and black trousers, he had a feeling they weren’t going out for a quick meal.

He sat by Mark, knees knocking together. Robbie grinned, pressed a button on the intercom beside the door, and said; “We’re ready.”

It was awkwardly silent for all of fifteen seconds before Gary couldn’t take it anymore.

“We were at the same dinner once, you and me.” It wasn’t the greatest conversation starter, but it was the only thing circling his mind.

“We were? I don’t remember. What’d we talk about?”

Gary shifted. “Well we didn’t talk. I just saw you.”

“Oh well, we’re talking now, so it’s all good innit? Anyway, I am so glad to have finally met you after all the non-stop prattle I’m gettin’ from Mark. I thought he was bad in the nineties before he’d met you, Christ it’s worse after he does.”

Gary couldn’t help that hearing Robbie say that made his heart thump harder.

“Rob,” Mark growled.

“Only giving you a hard time, mate. Really though I’m glad to have met you.” He reached across the empty space between the seats, hand outstretched. Gary shook his hand. 

Maybe Robbie wasn’t so bad after all.

* * *

Mark had no idea that Rob was going to come visit. He hadn’t had any warning. Coming home from work to see a limo parked in front of the flat meant only one person, and as happy as it made him, a part of him couldn’t help but feel wary. It wasn’t like Rob to show up uninvited, as spontaneous as he was. Considering some of the texts he’d sent him about the vacation and what they’d discussed over the phone yesterday when he got home, and that within three minutes of conversation inside Mark’s flat Rob suggested they invite Gary out, it was easy to pinpoint what had brought him here. Seeing as Gary had been in the limo less than thirty seconds before Rob went out of his way to mention Mark had fancied him in the nineties and proclivity to talk about him, it only confirmed his suspicions.

Rob had always been like a brother to him and they’d always looked out for each other. He never admitted to it, but Rob could be overly protective of Mark. Then again, Mark could be that way in return. Was he here to be protective and scope Gary out, or was it something else? Was he trying to play matchmaker? Whatever the specifics, he was here because of Gary.

Despite embarrassing Mark a bit, though that was part of Rob’s charm, he wasn’t being rude or abrasive towards Gary, so there was that. If Rob didn’t like him, he wouldn’t bother hiding it. At times it felt more like Mum and Dad gearing up to pull out the family album of embarrassing naked photos than anything else, so Mark just laughed along and good-naturedly glared at Rob, but they all enjoyed themselves. 

There was a bucket of ice in the back, but instead of champagne or other alcoholic drinks, there were bottles of water and different juices. Although Gary didn’t say anything, when he reached into the bucket and pulled free a bottle of cranapple, his face scrunched up in confusion. Unlike Mark, he’d never ridden around with Rob before so he had no way of expecting it. “I don’t drink,” Rob explained with a smile. “I’d keep something around for people who do but it was hard for me sitting by it without Ayda, you know?”

Whether Gary knew about Rob’s history or not, he nodded and drank his juice without any comments. It would be difficult not to know, considering it was splashed all over headlines a few years ago and it was brought up often even now, but scanning headlines didn’t paint the picture of how terrible it had been. It didn’t need to be painted vividly for people to understand, though, and he was glad Gary didn’t ask for more information. That wasn’t always the case; sometimes people scoffed at him or rolled their eyes, or thought that there had to be a certain level of addiction and tumultuousness before someone was allowed to abstain from that world, as if Robbie hadn’t blown past that long before he ever admitted himself into rehab.

“You look gorgeous,” Mark made a point of saying after he caught Gary smoothing a down his waistcoat for the fifth time with his brows furrowed.

“Do I?”

Mark nodded. “But, if you don’t mind, can I . . . ?” He reached forward hesitantly and waited until Gary nodded before unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. He rested his hand on the waistcoat for a second, eyeing Gary’s exposed clavicle, before pulling away.

Rob raised his eyebrows at him with a pinched smile. Mark glared at him. Rob shook his head with an eye roll then looked to Gary with a serious expression. “So you did A Million Love Songs eh? It’s a good one. I have the album actually. I didn’t get the Christmas one, though. I have the other two.”

Gary blinked quickly. “Wha--You do? I didn’t expect that.”

“What, didn’t think it’d be my type of music?” Gary’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He looked at Mark, then back at Robbie, then he took a drink of his juice instead of speaking. Robbie chuckled. “It’s all right, I know I’ve got a bit of a niche and all that. But you’ve got a niche too, I wouldn’t have expected you to listen to prog. Music’s funny like that, isn’t it?”

“It is, yeah. Well, to be honest, I never really . . . followed your career much. I just was a bit . . . er, you know. Mark told you, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, that you didn’t get in Take That. I completely understand. Hell, I would’ve hated your guts were it me in that position. I was a bit of a cock, you can ask Mark.”

The rest of the drive to Tiger Tiger went great, though not long. The fact that they were with Rob got them a lot of attention, and people, predictably, asked him for a picture. What surprised Mark was how every single person who stopped Rob also asked for Gary and Mark in the picture, too. If they didn’t ask for pictures, they asked for autographs. They talked about Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr. Mark couldn’t stop grinning and neither could Gary. 

Robbie had already taken care of the guest list and booked everything for Groovy Wonderland and Lucky Voice. Mark had no idea until they were riding the lift to the top floor and Rob explained that he’d paid for it all yesterday right after their phone call and buying plane tickets. “You can pretty much solve any problem if you’ve got enough money to throw at it,” he explained with a haughty grin and eyebrow waggle.

They went to Lucky Voice first. Rob had paid for a private room to avoid being bombarded with fans which made sense, although he rarely minded being out in the crowd and making a spectacle of himself on stage. Rob liked attention. He liked people. The three of them sitting in the red room, orange lights glowing and bathing them in warm tones, was pleasant but it wasn’t Robbie’s style for a night out on the town.

Instead of getting right into the singing, Robbie talked about Ayda and Teddy and how great they were all doing. It wasn’t until Gary spilled about his dry, unloving relationship with Allison and their shared love of Mark’s albums and his lack of girlfriends since that Mark narrowed his eyes in Rob’s direction and took the lead in getting the karaoke started.

Mark hummed when Rob insisted on getting something alcoholic for the two of them. “Just ‘cause I’m not in it to get pissed doesn’t mean you two have to be teetotallers. Just try not to puke on me shoes mate, they’re worth more than most houses.” He clinked his glass of Coke against their cocktails before downing it. Seeing as Mark had to work tomorrow morning he wasn’t planning on getting too drunk, but there was no harm in getting tipsy. Besides, even if Rob said it was okay, it wasn’t fair and it had to have been more tempting than he let on.

With a few drinks and a buzz in them, Gary and Mark shared a look before deciding solely on juices from then on. Besides, Mark knew how his voice got when he’d had too much to drink.

Rob treated his every song like a show stopper--he jumped around and danced like a moron, made silly faces and winked. He had Gary and Mark collapsing on each other in laughter, or emphatically singing along. Even with a few drinks in him, Gary focused more on showing off his vocal talents (which were extensive) and left Mark staring at him and soaking in every word. Mark wasn’t as fun as Rob or talented as Gary, but they clapped and cheered him on.

Conversation between songs was light and leaned mostly toward Gary. What he liked, what he disliked, how often he wrote music; it made sense, as Rob didn’t know much about Gary except for what Mark had told him over the phone. Gary had Rob doubled over and Mark with his head thrown back in laughter, trying as hard as he could to finish his stories despite his distinctive giggles slipping through.

“Christ, remember when we went off to the States? The whole band?” Rob slapped Mark on the back and then looked at Gary, mouth stretched wide. “So we’re off in the States sometime in the summer, and nobody knows who we are there of course, so we weren’t being hounded, which honestly, sometimes, you just don’t wanna be hounded when you’ve got girls flinging their pants at you every weekend and trying to grab your junk, you know? We had just took off, still weren’t used to the fame yet. So we go off to this Walmart--”

“Oh Jesus,” Mark groaned, slapping his palm to his face and laughing.

“See I knew you’d remember.” He sniggered and patted Mark on the back once more before removing his hand. “Well so they had this garden area; there was a fenced off bit outside with flowers, and on the inside there were these patio chairs and tables, really nice ones. So we’re sat there, checkin’ ‘em out, and the chairs are comfy as hell. We’ve been sitting there for about a half hour, nobody’s said anything and we’re fucking starved, so Charlie goes off and orders pizza. And he picks it up at the garden entrance, with the flowers and shit, and we’re sitting there on that really nice glass table with an umbrella, but it’s inside. Nobody’s said a word. Well this bloke comes up to us, real prat you know, and he starts snapping off about how we need to leave, we can’t eat pizza on the table ‘cause if we stain it, no one will want to buy it, and ‘unless you’ve got the money to pay for this set, you need to leave.’

“Well here’s the thing. There’s five of us, it’s not cheap, I think it was around three hundred. I mean these cushions are real nice. None of us are that old, I think I was about seventeen, not more than that, and Jay and Howard looked younger than they were, and like I said no one knows who we are. He probably thinks we’re just these bratty teenagers. So Jay, he starts apologising right off, but instead of leaving, I just reach into me pocket and throw a few hundred quid in his face. And I go; ‘Does that cover it?’”

Mark burst into laughter at the same time Gary did. Gary pressed into Mark, hand on his thigh and forehead pressed into his shoulder. Mark couldn’t help but lean into him too. Rob sat on the other side of Mark and laughed too, but not nearly as loudly as Mark and Gary were. Alcohol made everything funnier, and warmer, and Gary’s eyes were gorgeous this close, even in the red lighting.

All three of them sang together a few times, mostly at Rob’s insistence, and usually old Take That songs. Gary laughed through the first verse of the first song, but after that they all worked together, harmonising. Mark didn’t need to read the lyrics and neither did Rob, but Gary did. Despite not knowing the words, he did really well. Either he was smart enough with music to figure out how the notes would go or the songs were predictable. It was likely both.

Rob convinced Gary to go sing one more time before leaving for the Groovy Wonderland. Mark stared at Gary’s bum while he tried to pick what song to sing. Rob said something about the two of them finishing each other’s sentence and he dully agreed, watching Gary finally make a decision and turn around, eyes catching Mark’s. The smile he sent was cheekier than normal and Mark’s heart beat faster.

The song that played was Moondance, and although Mark had heard it before and liked it, Gary singing it was something else entirely. Even though he’d been singing all night, it was the first time Gary walked like he owned the place; really exuded confidence and presence, and his eyes focused straight on Mark, voice smooth and rich.

It was intimate, suddenly. The way Gary sang, sex oozing from every word and every note seductive. Rob being there didn’t feel right; awkward, even. It was probably a good thing Rob was there, though, because if not Mark might’ve stood up and snogged Gary in mid-sentence, though maybe not because he never wanted Gary to _stop_ singing. Whether it was because he was a little drunk or how he felt about Gary, it was one of the sexiest performances he’d ever witnessed. His throat dried, heart thumped, his breath came out in ragged, slow puffs, and his trousers tightened. Gary’s smooth voice surrounded him like warm honey, sweet and thick and golden. Hearing Gary sing that he wanted to make love tonight filled Mark’s head with images of licking his broad chest under the moonlight, nipping at his collarbone and feeling his chest hair tickling his wrist. 

When the song ended Rob cleared his throat loudly, snapping Mark out of his reverie. The words still rang in his head though the room was quiet.

“Dunno about you fellas but I think it’s time we get out there and dance our arses off.”

Rob walked a few feet ahead of them, leading them to the Groovy Wonderland. Mark looped an arm through Gary’s, pushing their shoulders together. Gary didn’t pull away, and in fact slowed his walking pace. He wasn’t drunk enough for his behaviour to be an excuse; he was still coherent, though buzzed. They’d only had a few drinks, and nothing particularly strong. At least, Mark hadn’t. He had no way of knowing Gary’s tolerance for alcohol. Still, he reached down and held Gary’s hand after a few seconds, threading their fingers together.

Gary didn’t pull away.

“When you sang Moondance, it was _really_ . . . good.”

“Yeah?”

Mark nodded, licking his bottom lip while he met Gary’s eyes. “It was actually pretty sexy, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Gary tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “Don’t mind you saying what?” They stopped walking, music thumping in the background, muffled and quiet.

“That you’re sexy.” When Gary smirked at him, Mark scoffed. Tricky bastard, making him say it a second time. He knew what he was doing. “Can’t believe I fell for you.”

One of Gary’s eyebrows quirked and Mark’s stomach fell. He had meant to say _that,_ not _you._ Now Gary stared at him, chest heaving as much as Mark’s was. His throat closed; he couldn’t correct himself in fear his voice would crack, and even if he did correct himself, that would only bring more attention to the mistake in the first place.

“Yeah, me either,” Gary murmured, smiling gently.

“So are you comin’ or what?”

Mark cleared his throat and faced Rob. He stared at the two of them with one eyebrow halfway up his forehead and cheeky smirk on his face.

They pulled their hands apart and both took a step away from each other. Rob snorted and continued leading the way. Mark blushed and kept his eyes straight ahead of himself all the way to the disco-themed dance floor.

Moving from the warm, crimson tones of the karaoke pod to the cooler shades of blue, purple, and better lighting disoriented him. The thumping music blared around him, people dancing on the light-up floor and women in rollerskates zooming past. A few people stared while they made their way to a private booth. Nobody approached them, though Mark was very much aware of their eyes and how people leaned closer to whoever they were dancing with and pointed.

Rob sat with his arms stretched out on the back of the seat. He surveyed the area with a few nods. “Lookin’ good tonight, I think.”

Mark sat two feet from Rob, but Gary sat hardly an inch from Mark. The alcohol had worn off enough that he couldn’t blame it for how his cheeks burned. Gary’s hand on his knee was the only possible culprit.

“You two need any more booze?”

Mark shook his head. “We’re good.”

Rob ordered a round of non-alcoholic drinks, and only when they were clinked on top of the table did Gary remove his hand. No sooner than they finished drinking, Robbie jerked his head to the dance floor. “Well we’re here to dance, aren’t we? Let’s get to it.”

Rob slid out and Mark followed. Gary scooted close to the edge of the circular booth, but didn’t leave. Rob shrugged before he walked to the dance floor, and Mark stayed by the table. “What’s wrong?”

Gary rubbed his eyebrow and shifted. He mumbled something, but the loudness of the music drowned him out. 

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“I said I can’t dance.”

Mark chuckled. He grabbed Gary’s hand and tugged on it gently. Gary didn’t follow, but he kept holding it. “Most of the people out there can’t dance either, Gaz. Nobody’s gonna care. C’mon, it’s just me and you.” Gary raised his head to look at him, smiling. “Well and Rob.”

Gary nodded and stood out of the booth. “Well if I make a fool of meself and this gets trendin’ on Twitter, you owe me, honeybee.”

“You’re never gonna drop that, are you?”

“Nope.”

Mark led him to the dance floor, fingers interlocked. They stood on the dance floor, coloured squares changing colour beneath their feet, and Mark turned around to stand in front of Gary. Mark pulled him close before letting go of his hand. Once they were face-to-face, it really was just the two of them. The crowd and music faded from his mind. All that mattered was Gary’s grey eyes and the way the varying colours reflected off his matching oyster waistcoat.

It didn’t take long for Mark to see that Gary wasn’t lying; he really couldn’t dance. He dipped and swayed his arms back and forth awkwardly. He hardly moved, as if constrained to a small box. Mark just smiled at him, because it didn’t matter how terrible he was; all that mattered was that they were there together. Besides it wasn’t as if Mark was the greatest dancer either. It had been over a decade since he’d done any break dancing, so the most he could shoot for was appropriate in gay clubs. Looking around, most of the men seemed to be doing something closer to what Gary did, anyway.

Mark swayed his hips and made himself at home, eyes never leaving Gary’s. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t twisting his pelvis and rocking his shoulders while inching closer. Maybe he couldn’t lay out a smooth swing hit with the sexual heat of the sun, but he could move and smirk and stare. If Gary minded he’d back off, but it wasn’t his imagination that Gary moved into his space while they danced. Dancing and grinning flirtatiously wasn’t crossing any lines; it wasn’t as if he’d be bold enough to make any moves that _actually_ counted.

Rob popped up beside them, wrapping an arm around each shoulder. “Either of you two thirsty? ‘Cause I’m off to get some drinks.” He was practically shouting in order to be heard over the music.

Both Gary and Mark shook their heads. Rob slinked away, giving them a thumbs up as he left.

When Gary’s knee smacked Mark’s and he froze, eyes wide and apologising loudly, Mark simply laughed. He could’ve stepped away, because they were standing too close. Instead he moved to the left, so his right knee was in between Gary’s, put one hand behind Gary’s neck, and kept dancing. Gary moved closer, a hand on either side of Mark’s waist, and licked his bottom lip.

Instead of dancing separate but facing each other, they met a rhythm. They had to; their knees would slam into thighs (or worse areas) if they didn’t time their movements. This was different; this was truly dancing _together._ Moving, breathing, smiling as one. 

If they’d met twenty years ago, it would’ve been different; they would’ve been shirtless at some gay club, grinding their pelvises together drunkenly, without the fear of Twitter to give them away and the excuse of playing at gay clubs for publicity only. Hands would’ve been roaming in places as part of the image and joke. Of course, now they were in their forties and this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill club that anyone could get in with a cover charge.

For what it lacked in obscenity it made up for in intimacy. Their pelvises weren’t rubbing and their hands didn’t roam each other’s bare skin, but they shared breath and a connection. Perhaps they shared what they would’ve lost otherwise.

Mark’s hand never left the back of Gary’s neck and Gary’s hand never raised or lowered from their place on Mark’s waist. They rocked and dipped and swayed, but he wasn’t sure if it was even to the beat of the music anymore but to their own, made up of breaths and smiles and memories of dreams he’d brushed aside every morning while brushing his teeth.

Song after song played and they stayed that way, in each other’s embrace, dancing to their own tune. Gary’s fingers slipped through Mark’s belt loops, zippers clashing a second later. Mark took in a shuddering breath.

That’s as far as it went though, because Rob came up behind Gary, one finger pressed to his lips, shushing Mark. He jammed his fingers into Gary’s ribs and he leapt away from Mark, squealing at the onslaught of sudden tickles. Rob laughed, pointing at him, and Gary covered his mouth to hide his giggles. All Mark could do was shake his head and smile.

Rob sidled beside Mark, pushing him in the middle so Gary stood on his other side. “It’s gettin’ a bit difficult,” Rob murmured and rubbed the back of his head.

Mark nodded, giving Rob‘s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Nearly everyone around them held an alcoholic drink. Mark knew just how hard bartenders and servers could push for people to order something with a kick and how it could be rough to turn them down, especially for Rob. “Okay. It’s getting late, anyway.”

Rob smiled and clapped Mark’s shoulder blade. “C’mon. Let’s get some fuckin’ tacos.”

* * *

It was later than Mark had thought, and since he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch he was more than grateful for the tacos, even if they went to drive-through to get them. The shocked face of the teen handing Rob his food through the window made them all laugh as they pulled away. By the time Mark finished his unevenly heated taco, he’d sobered up, though he hadn’t had much to drink anyway. That being said, it was nearing midnight so it had been a few hours since he’d started.

When the limo stopped at Gary’s house, Rob slapped his palm over their shaking hands with a smile. “Thanks for comin’ out with us, mate. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“We’ll have to, yeah. I’ve had loads of fun. Thanks.”

Gary turned to Mark and pulled him into a hug, rubbing his back. Mark returned the gesture, closing his eyes and turning his nose into the space where his throat and jaw met. He stroked the back of Gary’s neck before they pulled away. Gary kissed him on the mouth, quickly but softly. It was still an appropriate kiss for friends to share. “And I’ll see _you_ tomorrow,” he promised, tugging on his ear while he spoke.

“I can’t wait.”

Gary pulled on his earlobe once more before leaving the limo. Mark grinned at the closed door, chest tightening around his thumping heart.

“The fuck was that?”

Mark looked at Rob as the limo started moving again. “What was what?”

Rob swung his arm out in the air, gesturing at nothing. _“That._ ‘Oh, I’ll see you tomorrow poopsikins, mwah,’ like he’s your prom date.”

Mark rolled his eyes, although he felt heat bloom along his cheeks. “We’re just friends, Rob, I’ve told you.”

“More like a married couple, if you ask me.”

Mark rolled his eyes again, but couldn’t look at Rob, so instead he focused on the window. “We’re just friends,” he repeated, and it was the truth, and yet a heaviness settled in his chest and on his shoulders. He thought of the way they’d danced together, for longer than it had seemed apparently, and the way Gary’s eyes hadn't left his once while he sang Moondance. They’d held hands, even, on the way to Groovy Wonderland. What was worse was that Rob had seen it all and Mark couldn’t help the elation he’d felt when Rob had called attention to it, as jokingly as he had. It wasn’t just Mark seeing things how he wanted to, then, if Rob noticed too, right?

“Friends who sleep in the same bed after a day at the zoo, sure.”

“We’ve slept in the same bed.” It was reaching, but he needed to hear more; he needed to hear confirmation, from Rob’s mouth. Spilling his guts about Gary’s mixed signals hadn’t been for nothing, and Rob showing up and taking Gary out with them, taking steps back and watching rather than participating in everything they did tonight, wasn’t for nothing, either.

“That was different and you know it. We were teenagers and we weren’t cuddling, either. He’s in his forties, snuggling with a gay man his age who asked him out not even a month ago. You can’t tell me you’re buying that shit, ‘cause I’m certainly not.”

Mark cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He watched the streets move around them as they drove. He wanted to hear it, he’d been _hoping_ to hear it, and as glad as the words were making him, a part of him tensed.

“Look at me.” The joking lilt in his tone disappeared. Mark turned his head to face Rob, who had scooted to the edge of his seat, elbows resting on his knees. “I’m gonna say something, and you’re gonna hate it but I’m the best friend, so I kinda have to, you know?” Mark swallowed hard, but nodded. “I’m getting Elton John sized pings in my gaydar from him. Either he’s the gayest straight man I’ve met, or he’s so closeted he’s havin’ tea with Mr. Tumnus on Thursdays.”

“I don’t know why you’d think I’d hate hearing that, Rob.”

“You’re in love with him.”

Mark lowered his eyes. “Yeah.”

“The last time this happened, you . . . you lost your friends, your job. You had to move, Mark, and you weren’t even in love with that guy.”

“Gary would never hit me.”

“No, but he might avoid you. Ignore your texts, stop phoning you, stop showing up at the diner.” Mark’s heart stopped. Gary _had_ stayed home today, hadn’t he? Hadn’t stopped by the diner once, and he hadn’t told Mark that until after he’d asked to come by for tea. Rob didn’t know that because he hadn’t thought it was worth mentioning. “This is the thing, Mark. The way he was singing to you? Touching you? Christ, he’s--either he’s straight and he just likes the attention, or he’s . . . it’s safe. He’s flirting, and he’s spending time with you, but he never has to take any steps that really matter.”

“Rob--”

“No, listen to me. You’re not happy just being his friend. If you were, you wouldn’t be calling me every time he touches your knee, telling me how you slept in the same bed practically wrapped around each other. You’re going to keep spending time with him, hoping every single day that today will be the day he kisses you, tells you that he’s gay. And every night when you go home, you’ll be just a little bit more miserable. If he ever does start seeing someone, a girl of course, you’ll hate her and you’ll tie yourself up in knots ‘cause he’s got someone warm to go home to, someone with tits and it’s not you, and then every time you see him, all you’ll see is someone you can’t have, and you’ll want him all the more and you won’t get over him, because maybe, _just maybe,_ if you wait a few more months, a few years, he’ll come around. And whether he’s giving you hints on purpose or not, you’ll constantly feel led on.

“It’s not fair to either of you. If he doesn’t want to be with you, or for some reason he feels like he can’t, what do you think it’ll feel like to him? Even if you think you’ve got it under control, he’s not stupid. Hell, I can see it half a mile away, and if I can, he’s gonna see it all the more. And it’s just like men goin’ after girls who don’t want ‘em, no matter how many hints she drops that she doesn‘t wanna be with him, the bloke’s standing outside her window with a fuckin’ boom box, he’s going to feel like you expect somethin’ from him he can’t give you. He doesn’t owe you a relationship, and whether you think he does or not, he’ll feel like your friendship is based on you trying to get with him.

“And let’s face it, Mark. As much as you tell yourself that’s not it, you just enjoy his company, you’re completely happy to be just his friend, it’s not true, is it? ‘Cause you’ll always be trying, holding out for him, treating every day together like you‘re dating, flirting, and that’s not fair to him, either. It won’t be about friendship, and you’ll end up hating it. He’s in his fucking forties and he hasn’t come out yet _if_ he’s gay at all, did it ever occur to you maybe there’s a damn good reason for it? You told me what his Mum was like. So what? At best, you’re looking at a life spent with you being his dirty little secret, but even that’s not gonna happen--if it was, he’d have said yes when you asked him out.

“Look, I’m not saying you have to fuck off or anything. If you can honesty, truly look me in the eye and say that you’d be happy being just his friend, and you’ll never go home cryin’ when he dates someone else, or never ring me up again talking about how he hugged you but _different_ than how most people hug you, then go on. Keep being his friend, but I don’t want you holding out for something that’s never gonna happen, and missing out on something that could make you genuinely happy.”

Mark withdrew, shoulders hunched and knees pressed together. He wanted to tell Rob that he was wrong, that it wasn’t like that. He’d wanted to interrupt several times, but he’d kept quiet, because everything Rob said made sense. He had been, hadn’t he? Flirting with Gary, even when he’d been turned down; living for each touch, ruminating over every shared glance and tone inflection. If he’d been happy with just friendship, he wouldn’t have let Gary sleep in the same bed as him. He wouldn’t have reached for his hand or pulled him closer while dancing.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I just--I can see you really throwing your life away for him, Mark. I don’t know why, but I can. And that scares me.”

He wanted to stand up and shout. He wanted to shake his head and tell him no, no that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t going to throw his life away for anyone. Yet he’d lost his job and his friends not even six months before over a hasty decision; a breathless kiss with a man who wasn’t ready, and instead of backing away from Gary, he’d only taken more steps forward, and he’d even skipped breakfast at the diner. Maybe it was Carlo, sure, but maybe not. After all, throwing everything into one basket, throwing his life away for something that had no chance of working, wasn’t something new to Mark. The albums, the label, all of it. Hell, he was even having problems at work with Jeannie, the assistant manager for God’s sake, over Gary.

More than that, his bones ached and organs burned with knowing he could. In a way, it felt as though he already had, somewhere far from where he stood now. It flashed before him; a life filled with waiting for Gary to come around, or waiting to move on, but growing as old men in a holding pattern of nearing the line but never crossing it.

“It’s the last thing you want me to say, I know, and I like him, I do, but if you can’t be his friend, then you need to stop before it gets out of hand.”

His eyes burned and his throat swelled, but he nodded, folding his arms across his chest. He felt small; as small as he had in the nineties, surrounded by four men so sure of themselves while he stood there out of place.

“How’d you get to be so smart?” Mark’s voice broke, but Rob would never call him out on it.

“Well, I am plugged into a genius every night.”

Mark almost laughed. Rob smiled at him, though his brows knitted together and the wrinkles on his forehead deepened. It wasn’t something he wanted to hear--far from it--but he was right. He didn’t want to pout or make Rob feel bad for being honest, but he couldn’t fake that he was glad to have heard it.

“I had fun tonight, Rob,” he said, bringing up a subject before Rob either started apologising or kept up with the same topic.

“Me too. I always like being with my little buddy, though.”

The rest of the drive to Mark’s house, they talked about Ayda and their daughter, Teddy. The way Rob’s eyes lit up when he spoke about being a father lightened Mark’s mood, and he smiled when he thought about one day being able to experience that himself. 

Before he left the limo, Rob wrapped one arm around him and kissed the top of his head. Rob had always been there for him, even when his own life had been spiralling into shit. After all the times Mark had been blunt about Rob’s drug usage, even when he’d vehemently denied that he had a problem, the least he could do was listen when Rob had advice for him.

They said goodbye and he went into his flat, trying to avoid looking at the time because it was later than it should’ve been. He was tired and he wasted no time peeling off his clothes and curling under the covers on his bed, torn between what Rob said and the way Gary’s hand had felt on his knee.


	13. It Wasn't A Question Before I Knew

Spending the day warming up his voice and checking over the studio was invigorating. Playing the piano, fingers moving over the keys, brought an energy back to him that he’d missed. Being out with Mark and Rob had been enjoyable, but furthermore, he hadn’t hesitated to turn everything up a notch; there was no way Mark hadn’t known he was singing Moondance for him, and he had told Gary himself he’d fallen for him. He wasn’t naïve; even if they hadn’t been grinding the way some of the couples on the dance floor had, they’d certainly been intimate.

After work, Mark was going to come sing with him. It was something they’d only done once before in the studio, though they had sung a bit on the bed in London. It wasn’t the same as staring at each other, sharing a microphone. It was more than that now, though. This held of the promise of one day working together, not just as a hobby but officially. It wasn’t written in stone and Gary wasn’t sure yet, but it could go that way. So much rested on how they sang together today; whether they would stop or continue, and if they continued, how far it would take them.

Gary asked if Mark would want dinner first before singing over text during what he knew was break time. Mark said that he did, so Gary gathered ingredients and cooked. 

Mark told him he wanted to go home and change first so he started late. He finished before Mark arrived, though only by a few minutes. There was a small table in the kitchen he normally used for preparing, but he’d set up the food there to eat instead.

Mark ate quietly. When he did speak, it was succinct. None of his smiles reached his eyes and he hardly touched his food. There was a point where Gary had the feeling Mark only poked at it and ate because Gary was still eating. When Gary asked about his day, Mark said that everything went fine and it sounded believable, but maybe he was lying. Perhaps he thought the subject would ruin the tone of their afternoon together, or maybe it had gone well and Gary was being paranoid. 

It was seven by the time they went to the studio. He’d pulled out the pre-recorded Disney tracks for them to sing. They were simple, no need to memorise the notes and lyrics beforehand. It was their first time; he wanted to keep it simple, without any of the confusion from learning new songs.

Something was off, though. It wasn’t that Mark wasn’t hitting Aladdin’s notes right; he was. They didn’t even stumble over each other’s lyrics when they had to sing at the same time, which was impressive because even Gary had a hard time with that sometimes (though he was pretty sure he’d cracked on the high note but he’d have to listen to it first; she did have a difficult range).

They went through the in-film version of Can You Feel The Love Tonight a few times before Gary realised what it was; Mark wasn’t _feeling_ it. He was hardly even looking at Gary. Since they were sharing a mic, Gary was surprised he hadn’t noticed before. 

“This time I think we should switch parts. I’ll do Simba’s, you can do Nala’s. We’re getting complacent in our ranges you know? I feel like we should experiment more with it, try to develop them. See how far we can push, work on them better.” Mark nodded at the mic. Gary put his hand on Mark’s chin and gently turned his head so they faced each other. “Look at me, keep your eyes here. We have to work off each other, _feel_ the music.”

They sang through the song, Mark facing Gary but his eyes drifting to the side instead of focusing on him. Normally when Mark sang, Gary could swim in the emotions; an ocean of feeling, each wave a powerful hit in the chest. Now, though, everything fell short. He may as well have been singing colours and numbers back at him, bland and meaningless.

“Everything you’re singing is . . . caught in the back of your throat. You’re not feeling it. I’ll start it up again, but this time project. I know you can do this.”

He went through the door into the room with the equipment. Everything they’d already sang was saved into a folder for later listening and he checked all the knobs and switches; he saved what they’d just done in the folder with the other files. Before he started the music again, he looked at Mark through the glass window. He stood by the mic, head lowered and staring at the floor. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets and he stood with his feet pressed close together. He scuffed the ground and rubbed his face before sticking his hand back in his pockets.

Gary started the song. He had fifteen seconds before the music actually kicked in, to give him time to move into the recording booth and ready himself. He shut the door and Mark stood up straighter. He flashed a smile at Gary but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Before now, Mark had always smiled genuinely at him.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

The music started.

They sang, though Mark still lacked emotion. He kept ducking his head, eyes wandering. Gary would’ve frowned if he wasn’t too busy singing. He held Mark’s jaw and turned it upward, meeting his eyes. When Mark’s looked to the left, Gary tilted his head so their eyes met. Mark didn’t look away; he stood up straighter and sang louder, the corners of his mouth curving. Gary brushed his thumb along Mark’s chin and jaw before dropping his hand. Though he sang louder, he was in a range he was clearly not comfortable with and swallowed the vowels. Gary pressed his hand against Mark’s abdomen, where his diaphragm was, and pressed.

After that, the singing went much better and he didn’t look away from his eyes.

They went through Can You Feel The Love Tonight one more time. Mark blushed when Gary hit a particular note, but Gary’s heart fluttered when Mark tilted his head back with his eyes closed, reaching a note he’d faltered on last time.

When the song ended, Gary looked at the clock above the sofa he had against the wall. It was past nine.

“We could probably do two more, I think,” Mark said.

“Yeah. I’ll set it up to play ‘em one after the other, that all right?” Mark nodded, focusing either on Gary’s mouth or chin. “You know, I er, I’ve got Could It Be Magic and A Million Love Songs; step away from the Disney, now that we’ve warmed up.”

“I’d like that.”

The one time they’d sung together in the studio, with Gary setting up his keyboard beside the mic, they’d done his cover of Could It Be Magic and A Million Love Songs. This time around, he had the music pre-recorded so the keyboard was safely put away. It would be just them, inches from each other. They’d done both before so there was no need to go over the notes; they could dive right in, and he trusted Mark to do just fine.

Gary had never trusted anyone to keep up with him musically before. It was a scary, but beautiful, feeling.

When he stood before Mark again in the silence before the music began, Mark stared at the ground, scuffing his feet. Gary reached to tilt Mark’s head upward again, but hesitated; if he kept looking away, perhaps there was a reason, so his hand stilled inches from Mark’s face. The music started, though it wasn’t time for him to start singing, and Mark raised his head, eyeing the hand in mid-air. He grinned and Gary dropped his arm to his side, cheeks burning. Mark bit his bottom lip with lowered lashes. When he stepped closer a few moments later, Gary nearly forgot to start singing.

Their voices melded with all the ease of two people who had spent their lives practising together. Perhaps it was their natural ranges that fit so perfectly, which was a rare thing to come by accidentally, and yet they had. However, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t harmonised to Mark’s albums a hundred times before and he’d bet money on Mark doing the same with him, but it didn’t lessen the shock of knowing how great it was, and with so little time together.

Whatever reason Mark hadn’t been interacting with Gary or even feeling what he sang was apparently gone. Perhaps he’d been tired after work or he hadn’t had a good day, despite what he’d said earlier. It wasn’t as if it was an uncommon thing to lie about. Nobody could say they’d always been honest in that situation, least of all Gary.

During the fifteen second silence between both songs, Mark slowly brought his fingers to Gary’s cheek, just beneath his eye. His breath caught at the soft touch. He pulled away, an eyelash between his thumb and forefinger. “Make a wish.”

Gary blew and the lash spun in the air before disappearing from his sight.

He didn’t simply sing A Million Love Songs with Mark; he sang _to_ him. The lyrics had been scribbled years ago, locked away in his room about his best friend, long before he’d known Mark Owen, but they were just as applicable now as they were then. More so, even. The familiarity of singing this, inches from Mark while sharing breaths and a mic, swirled in his chest and gut. He’d dreamt of this moment; thought of this moment, even planned it. Now he stood there, meaning every word, and it all fit; this was how it should be, the two of them together. Harmonising alone, eyes locking; intimate and beautiful and wonderful, and the closer the song came to the end, the more he wanted it to last.

He dragged out the last note, but didn’t look away even as the music stopped. Mark didn’t move, either. It was quiet; quieter than before, ears burning and ringing and throat dry. They’d sidled closer at some point, though he couldn’t remember when; closer than they had been dancing last night, his lyrics fresh in his mind and from his lips.

Mark’s exhale shook and Gary swallowed. He brushed Mark’s fringe from his forehead, but didn’t pull away. He trailed his fingers across his cheek and behind his ear. He gently tugged on his lobe before cradling his jaw. If Gary was ever going to make a move, it had to be now. 

Mark took a step back. “We should listen to the songs, eh?” he suggested to the floor, then rushed off with his head bowed.

His stomach and heart dropped as if he’d missed a step going downstairs.

He cleared his throat and blinked before following Mark into the equipment room. Mark leaned against the panel, tugging on his shirtsleeve, and Gary breezed by to the computer, sitting in his chair. His ears burned and buzzed; there was a pounding in his head that went quicker when the breath caught in his throat.

“Did I do something?” he asked instead of listening to the file. Everything had been fine between them before last night. Had he come on too strong? Had he missed his window? There wasn’t anything he could’ve done today to have bothered Mark, because he’d been quiet the moment he’d set foot in the house. He’d thought Mark responded well to his flirting, but he had been buzzed; perhaps that had clouded his judgement.

“Hmm?”

Gary turned in his chair to face Mark, feet away from him and studying the way his own fingers tugged at his sleeve. “All day, you’ve been . . . distanced.” Mark scrunched his shoulders closer together. “Look, last night, if I--the way I . . . _behaved._ I had a bit of a buzz, and--and I know it’s not an excuse. I didn’t--I didn’t _mean_ any of it.” He didn’t know if his lie sounded as desperate as he felt. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be believable or not.

Mark laughed, harshly and without humour. He finally looked at Gary, eyes wet and a painful smile stretching his cheeks. “I know. That’s the--” His voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut.

_Oh._

“It’s getting late, I should go,” he muttered, voice cracking and shaking. He beelined for the door. Gary heard his footsteps against the stairs a second later.

_Shit._

Gary burst out of the studio before he’d even realised he’d stood out of his chair. “Mark,” he called from the top step, frozen in place with his hand on the railing.

Mark had already opened the door but he hadn’t stepped through. He turned around, cheeks wet. The door creaked, the porch light streaming against the floor.

His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He wanted to explain and apologise, but no words came to mind. All he could do was stand there, mind blank, while Mark stood with his back to an open door, ready to leave in any second.

He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Gary pounded down the steps in time with his thumping heart. He strode to Mark, grabbed his face, and kissed him. He hoped he hadn’t misunderstood, that he wouldn’t pull away, that he wouldn’t slap him. Their lips clashed awkwardly, and he regretted not pausing to assess Mark’s expression first and the best angle to come in from, but it was too late now.

He pulled away and let out a shaky breath. He kept his hands splayed across Mark’s cheeks, thumbs wiping away the wetness beneath his shimmering eyes, pupils wide and eyebrows halfway up his forehead. Mark’s breath came in ragged quick bursts, as shaky as Gary’s. He smiled, wide and beautiful, and though Gary’s heart rate didn’t slow, the quickened pace didn’t shoot hot panic through his chest; instead, warmth filled him and he leaned in, brushing his lips gently this time.

His eyes fluttered closed and Mark’s fingers found the back of his neck. He tasted tears on the tip of his tongue, salty and wet. He pulled away, eyes closed tightly and heart in his throat; he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, and this wasn’t just anyone; this was Mark, and he was beautiful and male and Gary had caused the tears in the first place.

Mark’s fingers trailed down his back so gently he barely felt them through the fabric of his shirt. He arched his back when his nails dragged over a sensitive spot, and felt soft lips against his own, smooth and caressing.

Mark worked his mouth open and dragged a sigh that bordered on humming from Gary’s chest. His fingers slipped into Mark’s glorious hair and he pushed forward, flicking his tongue at his lip. He pressed Mark into the door and it shut with a click. He tilted his head for better access. This time, it was Mark who hummed.

Gary pulled away to smile, just enough to see Mark’s face. His eyes were tinged red and the skin beneath glistened, but he smiled harder than Gary did. His fingers slid up Gary’s back, sending shivers up his spine, so he leaned down and gave him another kiss, and another, and another, until Mark’s mouth opened beneath his, tongues brushing and flicking each other’s.

He hadn’t been kissed in years, and certainly not by anyone he really cared about. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had left him breathless just from their fingers dancing slowly up and down his back, or melodies filled his head with the sighs that escaped their caressing mouths and the slide of fingers through hair and against fabric. He wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced the slow, gentle pace setting fire to his chest and consuming him, skin buzzing from the tips of his fingers and ears to his head, in a way that only music could.

He’d never once had a first kiss weaken his knees and send his head straight off into oblivion, the only thing anchoring him the man holding onto his waist and nipping at his bottom lip. Had he ever truly kissed anyone before now? Had anybody ever enflamed him the way Mark had?

They pulled away, Mark’s pupils blown and smile small but soft. Gary brushed the backs of his knuckles down his cheek, searching his face. Mark’s hands drifted to Gary’s waist, thumb brushing underneath his shirt.

“I’m gay.”

He’d never said it out loud before; not even to himself. He’d heard stories of people standing in front of the mirror, speaking the words and practising their coming out speeches, but he hadn’t. Not even when he’d been with Brian. It was silly to blurt it out after a kiss, but he couldn’t help it. It just tumbled out all on its own.

Mark nodded, head leant against the door still. “Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was low, quiet. A bit raspy.

Gary nodded. “I think I do.”

“Okay.”

The living room was dark when they walked into it, so Gary switched on the light. He followed Mark to the sofa and sat beside him, angled towards each other so their knees touched. Mark held Gary’s hand in his own, thumb brushing over his knuckles, still smiling and eyes still soft despite being watery and red.

“A Million Love Songs was about a boy. My best friend.”

“Did you ever tell him?”

Gary shook his head and held tighter to Mark’s fingers. “No.” He licked his bottom lip and focused on the way their fingers entwined together. “My roommate, Brian. He, uh. He wasn’t a roommate. He never missed a bill, always paid utilities on time and kept a clean house. I lied. In the end, he just . . . got over me. I think that hurts the most, ‘cause I loved him. He’s probably the only person I’ve ever loved, and when he left, I . . . lost myself. I trashed the guest room, the one we always said was his. I chucked a wine bottle and put a hole in the wall. Had to knock it down, and that’s why I made the studio. He was never a fan of my music, see. He didn’t really like anything I did come to think of it.”

Mark pulled Gary’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I like what you do,” he promised, lips curled into a smile above his hand before kissing it again.

“Me, too.” Mark quirked an eyebrow at him. “Like what you do, I mean.” Mark chuckled once, airily. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I wanted to say yes, honestly.”

Mark trailed his fingers along Gary’s hairline. “It’s okay,” he whispered. He brushed the back of his knuckles down Gary’s face, before tucking his fingers underneath his chin. “It’s okay,” he repeated, even quieter. He kissed Gary then; just a soft press of lips, though he lingered before he pulled away.

He wanted to explain more. He wanted to tell him how he’d struggled from the moment he met Mark, to keep everything inside. He wanted to explain why he was so nervous; the comments his parents had made his whole life, the accusing stares, the suspiciously specific jokes Ian told with focused eyes and the roiling in his gut whenever it happened. But none of that was even relevant. Mark didn’t need to know that his first kiss was with a girl, but when he went home and his parents thought it was cute, he’d been angry. He wanted them to be furious, because _he_ was furious. It had felt like it had been taken from him, and he’d never get that back. There was no reason for him to talk about how instead of telling people that he’d felt that way he’d played along.

He leaned forward and kissed Mark instead; kissed him the way he’d wished he’d kissed his best friend as a teen. Slow and gentle, tongue slipping between lips to get a taste; they way he should’ve kissed Mark ages ago, just allowing himself to take in how it felt to have their mouths opening and sliding against each other, noses brushing when they tilted their heads in the other direction.

Mark kissed the tip of his nose before he pressed their foreheads together. “It really is getting late,” he murmured, hands sliding up and down Gary’s chest.

Gary closed his eyes and slid his nose against Mark’s. “I know.” He nudged Mark’s mouth with his own. A smile split beneath his lips before kissing him back.

Mark pulled away, cheeks pink and teeth worrying his bottom lip. “I should go. We can um, talk more tomorrow?” He spoke carefully, eyebrows raised and still nibbling his lip unsurely.

Gary nodded, squeezing Mark’s hand. “And the day after, too, if you want.”

He walked Mark to the door. They got distracted in the doorframe with each other’s tongues and mouths, before Mark pulled away, giggling, and said; “I really have to go,” with his nose scrunched.

“All right, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was difficult not to lean forward and capture Mark’s lips, but he managed it by stepping away.

“Goodnight, Gaz.”

Gary shut the door behind Mark, heart soaring. It hardly seemed real, what had happened between them; like a fleeting dream, a small fantasy that he indulged in, rather than reality. He had kissed Mark, admitted to things he’d never said aloud before, and the world hadn’t crashed down around him. The floor hadn’t swallowed him up, Mark hadn’t slapped him, everything was wonderful and new and instead of being terrified, he was excited.

A few sharp knocks interrupted his walk back to the living room. 

He smiled wider and turned back to the door, jerking it open. Mark grabbed the collar of Gary’s shirt and yanked him forward, kissing him deeply and wetly, their chests pressed together. Teeth dragged against lips and tongues met and pushed. Gary clutched at him, fisting the back of his shirt and biting at his bottom lip.

Mark wrenched away as suddenly as he had kissed him, gasping with kiss-swollen lips. Gary couldn’t catch his breath, either. “Okay, for real this time,” Mark managed through his breaths.

“All right, yeah. Goodnight, Mark.”

“Goodnight.”

When he shut the door, he rested his forehead against it and laughed.

* * *

Going to the diner was the same as always, yet completely different. Meeting Mark’s eyes across the diner felt less like a greeting and more like a private discussion. The lighting in the diner was brighter and the music playing just loud enough for him to hear was better, despite it being the Top 40 crap that made Gary’s lip curl in most situations. Sandy even commented on his good mood, then swatted his arm playfully when he said he wanted to try something new today instead of his regular.

He’d decided to buy some groceries, though he wasn’t really in absolute need of them, so he’d shown later than usual. He took his time eating so that when he finished he only had to wait a few minutes before Mark’s lunch break. 

He walked out with Mark, their elbows bumping. “Went shopping so I have the car today, instead of walking.”

Mark slid his hand in Gary’s. “What did you buy?”

“Mostly groceries. Been cookin’ a bit more recently, actually.”

“Thought you didn’t like cooking?”

“I’m a bit of a liar.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Mark’s smirk was enough to make Gary stop and give him a kiss before getting into the car. “So I have some bad news,” Mark said when Gary pulled out of the car park.

“What’s that?”

“This waitress, Nicole, she’s been sick the past few days. Turns out it was pretty bad. ‘cause she died this morning.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I know. Well, this bloke I work with--can’t ever remember his name--well, his girlfriend happened to need a job, but until her background check comes in, shouldn’t take too long, Jeannie’s having us take turns working twelve hour shifts to cover for it. It’s my turn, so I won’t get off work ‘til nine tonight. So um, would you mind if you picked me up for my second break? It’s at five. If not, I understand of course.”

“I’d love to. Actually, was planning on doing somethin’ with salmon tonight. You all right with that?”

“Sounds great, Gaz.”

Mark helped him put away groceries although Gary insisted otherwise. Mark was stubborn though, so Gary ended up telling him where everything went anyway.

Gary had set up the table in the kitchen with an old tablecloth he hadn’t used . . . Well, he hadn’t ever used it all, to be honest. He’d bought it with Allison in anticipation for dinner with her parents, but it had been too small for the table in the dining room. It wasn’t anything special--it was a pale shade of green, because it was either that or fluorescent yellow--and he had to fold it once to stop it from draping to the floor. It was the only tablecloth that wasn’t specifically for the dining table he had, though, and he tried to avoid that room as much as possible. He’d put two small plates on either side of an unlit white candle. He’d hesitated before putting that in the centre, but he’d gone with his instinct and done it anyway. He regretted it when Mark turned away from the cupboards and faced the table. Was it too much? They’d only kissed less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Is that for me?” Mark asked gesturing to the table, when Gary put the last bag in the bin.

“Yeah. Well I thought, you know. Just . . . looked nice.” He rubbed his eyebrow as he went to the fridge. 

He heard the scraping of a chair against the floor. “It _is_ nice, thank you.” 

He’d made a plate of sandwiches before leaving and put them on the table. Mark didn’t eat until Gary was finished making the tea, but when he finally poured them both a cup and sat, Mark didn’t hesitate. As Gary had just eaten, he worked through two of them slowly, pride filling him as Mark kept taking more. He mostly talked about Jeannie and how, even if he disagreed with some of what she did, she was a far better manager than John. Apparently John hadn’t known what to do when Nicole died and it was Jeannie who’d had to come up with how to rearrange the scheduling around. This led into workplace drama that Gary tried to follow--something about Carlo taking a shift he wasn’t supposed to and another server who was constantly on his mobile instead of working--even though it sounded much closer to a hard-to-follow soap opera than working in a diner.

When Mark ate the last sandwich (Gary hadn’t made as many as he should have; he’d have to remember that for future reference) he grabbed the plates and headed straight for the sink. Gary thought he was just going to put them in the basin until he heard the water start running.

“Oh, Mark, you don’t have to do that.” Gary stood from his chair.

“Don’t worry, I like to.”

He wrapped his arms around Mark’s stomach and sniffed his hair. Though he could smell the diner on him, the traces of shampoo remained. He hummed into his hair and Mark put the plate in the empty sink basin, soap suds gathering in the centre. Gary pressed a kiss where Mark’s neck and shoulder met. Mark hummed and tilted his head, exposing more of his throat, and Gary opened his mouth against him. Mark sucked in a shaky breath and Gary grinned before nipping the wet spot with his teeth.

“You’re distracting me,” Mark groaned and leant into him.

Gary responded by dragging his teeth against his skin.

“Bastard.”

He nibbled and suckled Mark’s throat. He could feel his pulse against his tongue and hear Mark’s quickening breath. When he bit down on the moistened spot, Mark gasped. Gary chuckled against his skin before he returned to sucking and licking him.

Mark turned in Gary’s embrace, sliding his hands up Gary’s chest and then behind the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. Gary put his hands on Mark’s waist, tenderly tugging his bottom lip with his teeth and suckling it after; working his mouth open slowly and gently, pulling just an inch away every few moments before lightly sliding their mouths open. He snuck his tongue inside before withdrawing and caressing his mouth with a turn of his head.

For a kiss so soft, everything about it was intense; the way Gary’s heart tried to break free of its bony cage; how hot Mark’s fingers were, playing at the base of his skull; how difficult it became to breathe and how the world wouldn’t stop spinning. Little Marky Owen, short and thin and frail-looking as he was, reduced Gary into a shuddering cliché, head filled with love songs and candlelit dinners and lyrics that had existed within his own mind for years, but only now seemed to hold any meaning. For someone so small, he had so much impact; years ago, Gary had trailed the tip of his finger across Mark’s mouth in a small picture in a lyric booklet; now, he traced his lips with his own instead.

He kissed him in the sunlight shining through the windows, soaking in the heat and the feel of Mark against him. There were so many opportunities he’d had to do this; so many times he could’ve leaned in and took his lip between his own, so many times he could’ve pulled away to smile before brushing another kiss to the side of his mouth, his top lip, his nose.

Mark’s alarm went off, phone vibrating in his trouser pocket, which pressed right against Gary’s leg. “Damn,” Mark breathed, lips still moving against his.

Instead of stepping away, they stood there, mobile vibrating against Gary’s inner thigh and muffled music blaring; mouths pressed together without movement, just sharing breath. Stopping now seemed cruel, but such was reality. Even though he wanted to kiss him again, despite the blaring alarm and necessity of work, Gary took a step back. Mark leant against the sink, legs spread slightly and shirt rumpled in front, with the afternoon sunlight setting him aglow.

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and turned it off. He cleared this throat and smiled blushingly.

The short drive back to the diner was silent, though Mark’s hand was on Gary’s knee the entire ride. When he left, door shutting behind him, Gary turned on the radio, having left the iPod at home. Halfway from the car to the diner, Mark turned around to wave, waggling his fingers, and Gary returned the gesture, grinning ear to ear. Not even the between-songs traffic report on a five car pile-up could ruin his mood.

* * *

Knowing when Mark had his next break made it easier for Gary to plan the meal. He didn’t live far from his work, so he felt no guilt in leaving the plates, steaming and warm, on the table while he drove to the diner and back.

Mark laughed when Gary lit the candle in the darkened kitchen, curtains drawn. “Too much?” He couldn’t help but be self conscious.

“No, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He kissed Gary before sitting at the table.

It was still hot when they ate, though maybe Gary should’ve cooked the asparagus longer. Mark was impressed, however, so perhaps Gary was being picky.

“How did you come out to your parents?”

Mark shrugged. “I never did. I dated girls for a bit, when I was in school, but I fancied boys more, so I started dating them instead. They probably thought I was bisexual until I came out after Take That.”

“What, you never . . . sat down and . . . talked about it? Were you worried that they’d be angry if you did?”

Mark shook his head. “No. They were really liberal, very open about supporting the gay community. So I just never felt like I had to explain anything, you know? I came home with a boy, said he was my boyfriend, and that was it, really.”

Gary put his fork down. He really only had an asparagus left, anyway, and rested his chin on his clasped hands. He stared at his almost empty plate with his brows furrowed. “That must be nice.”

“It is.” Mark cleared his throat. “Are you, um . . . planning on coming out?” The tines scraped across the plate and the flame flickered.

Gary poked his last asparagus with his fork. “I don’t know. I um, I have to eventually. I’ve never . . . . Before now, I never expected to, but I just. With you, I . . . I know I want to, someday.” He met Mark’s eyes and licked his bottom lip. “We’re dating, right? You and me.”

Mark smiled. “Yes.”

Gary let out the breath he’d been holding. “Good. I just . . . I don’t want to hide you away, like I did with Brian, you know? You deserve more than that. _He_ deserved more than that.” He bit down on his lip. “I keep thinking about some stories I’ve heard, about coming out. Parents telling their children that they’d rather they were dead.”

“Would your mum say that?”

Gary shook his head. There was no way she would. Even if she was a bit traditional, she had gay friends (at least, ones she liked to use an excuse as to why she wasn’t homophobic). “No.”

Mark’s tiny; “Good,” was barely audible, but the kitchen was quiet enough that Gary heard it.

When Mark’s alarm went off, they both put their plates in the sink. Mark sighed and muttered about having to work another three hours, but said that at least he’d have a somewhat larger cheque. He pulled to a stop in the car park, and they sat in a brief, yet heavy, silence.

“If you don’t mind me saying, and I understand it’s your decision of course, I don’t mean to be awful, but . . . you should come out. Not saying right now, but . . . I don’t want to be kept away.”

Gary’s throat tightened and dried. Of course Mark wouldn’t want to be a secret; who did? Nobody deserved that. It was one of the reasons why he’d sworn off men after Brian, because there was always the hope that there would be a woman out there, one day, who was close enough; close enough to the right kind of love that spending the rest of his life with her, never allowing himself to be close to men, wouldn’t be terrible. He had resolved never to come out, and so he could never be with a man again.

Yet now here he was, sitting with his boyfriend in a car, and people had already coined a phrase and trended it on Twitter.

Even if they hadn’t known each other long, and had been together for such a short time, this was different. Mark was different. Even if it didn’t last, not that Gary planned on it ending, he couldn’t live the rest of his life the same way he’d been living it so far; locked away, tiptoeing around what people wanted to hear; refusing to be an inconvenience. He was tired of being nothing more than the spaghetti stain on a sofa cushion hidden underneath a pillow at all times.

What had living this way ever done for him? He’d lost his dream job with no condolences, he’d had to hide the one relationship he’d had (so far) that truly mattered and couldn’t ask for sympathy when it ended, and he’d done nothing but live as unassumingly as possible, knowing that allowing room for anything he wanted would put him in the position of having to hide, or having to come out.

He was tired of being alone. He was tired of resigning himself to a future of settling with someone he’d never be passionate about for the comfort of others. It went beyond being with Mark; it was about being able to live the life he deserved and wanted for himself, and right now that included not having to treat Mark like a secret. More importantly, it was about not treating himself like a secret; something filthy and undesirable. If Mark was better than that, if Mark was worth more than the degradation of being hidden away, then Gary was worth more than that too.

* * *

Saturday, Mark had a quick tea on the sofa with Gary, yawning and complaining about some teenagers having a party late into the night somewhere near his flat. After they finished eating, he’d pulled his knees up to rest on Gary’s thighs, head against his chest, and fell asleep. Gary wrapped an arm around Mark’s shoulder and turned the volume on the telly down.

He really was beautiful, eyes closed with his fringe falling across his forehead. There was nothing shameful in kissing the top of his head, or absently plucking the fingers lightly curled against his abdomen. Slow, steady breaths warmed his shirt and heart. He had never been able to ring up Ian or his mum and tell them what a great day he’d had with a boyfriend, or talk to his friends about the little couple things while they shared tales of their girlfriends. Whenever Ian talked about Lisa, a part of him must assume that Gary had no way of comparing or understanding. All the times he had wanted to nod along and join the conversation but couldn’t; had to put on a air of ignorance so that nobody came to the right conclusion. They must think he had no idea what love was like in a real, non-song writing sense. 

The alarm sounded and Mark groaned. He lifted his head and blinked blearily up at him. He was so beautiful and such an inspiration to him; the idea of hiding him away made him sick. The fact he had done so with Brian made him sicker. 

Mark had driven here, so after turning his alarm off Gary led him to the door, hand on the small of his back.

“I’m going to tell them,” he blurted when Mark stepped onto the porch.

“What?”

“I’m going to tell Mum and Ian.”

Mark threw his arms around Gary, kissing his cheek and burying his face in his shoulder. “I knew you could do it.” He pulled away and kissed him on the mouth. “No matter what happens, I’m here for you, all right? No matter what.”

Gary nodded, and hugged him once more. “You better get goin’, don’t want you bein’ late.”

When Mark left, Gary avoided his phone. Instead, he wasted time on Twitter. He’d gained over five hundred followers since he’d last checked. Quite a few of them had barlowen somewhere in their names or bios. Judging by some of the tweets, barlowen had been “confirmed” and trended again. Looking deeper, Robbie had confirmed it on his blog (in all caps, apparently) as well as on Twitter. Someone had uploaded a video of Mark and Gary dancing together on youtube. While watching it brought a smile to his face, reading the comments had done the exact opposite; people insulted his weight and compared Mark’s dancing to a epileptic Parkinson’s patient. However, people were sharing old Take That music videos as well as songs from Gary’s albums, and that was definitely a plus. Somehow, people were under the impression that Gary had been a part of Take That as the frontman, until “real fans” set them straight. An article by Daily Mail was being passed around--“Mark Owen Sets His Standards Barlow!”--that was particularly unkind about Gary’s appearance and Mark’s musical ability, with pictures of them kissing in Gary’s doorframe and talking in the car. The paparazzi had been stalking Mark since he’d been hired at the diner, but that didn’t mean Gary was thrilled about them following him around snapping pictures of private moments.

It only proved that he didn’t have much of a choice but to come out. If he didn’t tell Mum and Ian, they would find out eventually, either through a friend who had Twitter or by coming across it on their own accidentally. Neither of them ever looked him up online but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come to their attention elsewhere. He’d much rather them find out through him than anyone else.

He still didn’t pick up his mobile.

He wrote music reviews on his blog. He searched music on youtube. He played piano and watched telly.

It wasn’t until after five when Mark texted him _Good luck! x_ that Gary swallowed hard. Memories of Brian’s face after every family visit and him having to sleep in the guest room rushed back to him. Imagining that same expression on Mark twisted unpleasantly inside him. Brian’s cold shoulder turned away from him on bed the night after any visitors left was deserved; picturing Mark turning away from him, instead of curling against him, hurt more.

The peace he’d felt idly plucking Mark’s fingers while watching him sleep wasn’t something he could say he’d experienced before. There was something so _right_ about being with him; finding the right note in a song and the right lyrics to go with it. Life itself clicked together.

He finally punched in his mum’s number and started to pace.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mum, it’s me.” His hand jumped to the back of his head.

“Oh, hello Gary. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I was wondering, er, when’s the next time you and Ian could come down for dinner?”

“Will Mark be there?”

He licked his bottom lip. It was impossible to tell over the phone if she was asking because she didn’t want him there or if she did. Though he would like to have support, depending on how badly it went, Mark might have more than a few insults hurled his way. “No,” he decided, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d rather Mark avoid dealing with that. They hadn’t been dating long and the last time he’d met his parents it hadn’t gone well; he wasn’t going to throw him knee deep into drama this early.

“That’s too bad.” Again, he couldn’t tell if she meant it or not. “What’s today?”

“It’s Saturday, the third.”

“I have church tomorrow, but hmm, hold on a moment.” He swallowed and clenched his teeth. He stared at the ceiling, heart thumping. “I think Tuesday’s best, but it’s really Ian you should check with first, dear.”

He nodded. “Right, yes. I’ll text him now.”

“Let me know what he says.”

“Yes, I will. Thanks, Mum. I’ll let you know.”

“Bye, dear.”

It was easier to text Ian than it was to ring him. He responded twenty minutes later, though it felt closer to an hour.

Tuesday it was, then.


	14. God I Love Those Hips

Sunday started later than normal due to Gary being unable to sleep. As much as he tried not to, he worried about Tuesday. He had to do it, there was no question; even if he wasn’t ready right now, simply planning on getting around to it wasn’t enough anymore. Not only because he was dating Mark and any amount of time sweeping that under the rug was too long, but also because of the fact he was out online already. Even before they’d kissed, people were talking about it. Trending it. Now that it was confirmed, by Mark’s best friend so there was no reason to doubt it, it was everywhere, at least on Twitter. It wouldn’t take long for someone to link to that atrocious article on Facebook somewhere. People in Frodsham were fans of him, if only because he’d been born there and had a small period of fame, so Tuesday might come too late, even, were someone to bring it up with his mum.

He dressed in sweats and a white tee. They never went back for the pink shirt he’d taken off while swimming, so he’d rummaged through his old clothes until he found one he didn’t want anymore. Even sleeping in late didn’t get rid of the grogginess, so he wanted to keep everything relaxed and low-key.

Before Mark showed, he made scones with clotted cream and jam. He’d barely put them on a plate and poured the tea when Mark knocked on the door. “You can just come in, you know,” he said when he opened the door.

“Late morning?” He gestured at what Gary wore.

He rubbed his forehead as he shut the door. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Mark made himself comfortable on the sofa and grabbed a scone. “Stressed about Tuesday?”

Gary plopped next to Mark. “Yeah. Well, you met me mum.”

“I can come, you know. For support.”

Gary shook his head. Best case scenario, his mum would cry in disappointment and Ian would give him that _look._ The one he always shot him after Gary had let something slip that he found a bit too rude or, when he was a kid, after he’d done something that upset Mum. Coming out wouldn’t be a positive moment to either of them; more of an admission of guilt. Their version of open-mindedness was saying that despite how wrong being gay was, we shouldn’t bully anyone. Worst case scenario? Arguments, insults, and sobbing. Shouting. Either way, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. It was something he needed to do; him alone.

“I think it’s best I do it alone.”

Mark squeezed his knee. “You can do it.”

They ate quietly, Gary’s mind stuck on arguments and slurs that hadn’t even been said yet. It was hard to be optimistic or hope for the best when he’d grown up seeing his parents tutting when two women held hands in the shops and having discussions about “keeping it private” whenever men kissed each other or publicly declared their sexuality. Even now, the hypocrisy of his mum talking about gay men being great shopping buddies but rolling her eyes when a teenager wore anything with a rainbow on it wasn‘t uncommon. “Hate the sin, not the sinner,” she had said (as had his father, when he was alive) as if that was somehow open-minded. Hearing his parents sigh and talk condescendingly about Elton John coming out as bisexual when he was a child hurt him, before he even understood why it hurt. His father tutting when he came out as gay in the eighties and making snide remarks despite the fact Gary was very openly a fan of his hadn’t been any better. The passing comments about his own piano playing, as gentle as they were, never ceased, despite their attempts to be supportive. Although they were always open about thinking music was a childish endeavour and nothing that could possibly last, he’d never been able to shake the worry that perhaps they’d thought it too homosexual.

He shouldn’t care what they think. There was nothing shameful or dirty about being gay whatsoever. Anyone who thought otherwise was wrong. Yet people were complex; his mother was a wonderful woman who loved him and Ian was protective and caring. His father had been strong and funny and loving. Still, the idea that they could feasibly want nothing to do with him and honesty believe they were in the right for doing so? No matter how many times he told himself that it wouldn’t matter, it did. 

“You’re really worried, aren’t you?”

Gary focused on the crumb-covered empty plate. “I love my mum. I love Ian. And they’re not bad people, Mark. But the idea that they would stop--” He snapped his mouth shut. Thinking it was one thing, but saying it out loud? 

“Gaz, look at me.” He swallowed, but did as he was told. “I don’t know your family very well, so I can’t promise you it’ll go okay. I can’t say I know what this is like either ‘cause I don’t. But what I can say is that no matter what happens, you’ll make it through just fine and I’m here for you. All right?”

Gary nodded. “All right.” He pushed Mark’s hair behind his ear, then pulled lightly on his earlobe. “That does help a bit.”

Kissing Mark was something he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of doing. Everything about it was new yet familiar; the softness of his lips, the tilt of his head, the way his hand slid up Gary’s chest and behind his neck. Even his taste had a specific essence that had a rightness about it.

Gary couldn’t keep his hands in one spot; they moved from Mark’s back to his hair to his back again. His tee was thin so when Mark scratched down his chest, he could feel his blunt nails against his skin. Hums filled the air consistently and Gary echoed every noise Mark made, vibrating deep in his bones. 

The kiss gradually deepened and quickened until nudging mouths became persistent tongues and open-mouthed gasps. Hands smoothed and scratched through clothing; fingers scrabbled and clutched. Hopeless moans and whimpers replaced the hums. Instead of focusing on every touch, every tilt, every breath, Gary completely lost himself.

Mark pushed Gary back, lips smacking apart. Chests heaving with cacophonic breaths, they stared at each other, lips swollen and cheeks pink. Mark’s eyes were different somehow; larger, darker.

With a smirk, Mark swung a leg over Gary’s lap, straddling him. Mark crashed his lips to Gary’s, hard. He responded with just as much ferocity, with too much teeth and too much tongue, too wet and completely uncoordinated. Losing himself to it was so much different from _trying;_ trying to calculate how much pressure to assert, how long he should hold a position before moving. It didn’t need to be perfect; it could be imperfect and sloppy, and better for it.

Nobody had ever been able to completely wreck and rebuild him the way Mark could. Letting him take the reins, allowing himself to get so lost and trust Mark to guide him back, was both terrifying and invigorating. Everything about how Mark ground against him and devoured his mouth was intoxicating, but sobering at the same time. It was intense and fast and getting rougher by the second.

With nothing but the thin sweats, the friction was maddening. Gary was getting hard and there was no way Mark couldn’t tell. In fact, Mark pressed impossibly closer, chest-to-chest, the front off his trousers rubbing faster against his erection. “Oh my god,” Gary grunted, pulling away to suck in breaths and get some much needed air. He rested his head against the back of the sofa, and slid his hands from Mark’s waist to his bum, grasping firmly and guiding him.

Mark didn’t hesitate to start biting and sucking Gary’s exposed neck. Gary untucked Mark’s shirt from his trousers, palms sliding against his hot skin and scratching down. Mark arched, throwing his head back with his mouth open, letting out a long moan. He stilled, eyes closed, then slowly opened them, staring down at Gary with his lips parted. He rocked his hips gently.

Gary gulped. Mark leant down and licked his lip. “I fucking want you, Gaz,” he murmured against his mouth. 

“Jesus Christ.”

Mark chuckled deeply and whimpered when Gary clutched his sides underneath his shirt. He nipped and kissed along his jaw before he pulled his earlobe into his mouth and sucked.

The alarm blared.

Mark sat up straight, palms pressed flat against Gary’s chest and pelvis rolling. Cheeks flushed and hair mussed, he looked hotter than ever. With a long sigh, he got off of Gary and took the phone from the coffee table. He shut it off, so thoroughly dishevelled everybody would know exactly what he’d been doing for his break. 

Gary’s shirt was halfway up his torso, his sweats obviously tented. When Mark eyed his erection, Gary cleared his throat and shifted. There was nothing to cover himself with close at hand, so he could really only blush. Mark put his phone in his pocket then tucked in his shirt. He ran his hand through his hair a few times. It didn’t take much for him to look decent; his trousers even hid his erection well. Gary only knew he had one as it had been vigorously grinding against his own a few seconds ago.

Mark bent over to hold Gary’s chin and give him a soft, lingering kiss. “We can finish after work,” he promised in a low voice.

Mind filling with images of Mark’s open-mouthed moans, he retuned the kiss. “Looking forward to it.”

* * *

How Mark made it through the rest of his shift was a mystery. He hadn’t meant for the kiss to become so intense, or for the snogging to evolve into grinding in Gary’s lap, but he certainly didn’t regret it. He’d had to head straight into the loo right after clocking in and wank into a toilet, but it was worth it, knowing that when his shift ended he’d be back in Gary’s arms, grinding and grasping. Of course, that made it all the more difficult to make it through work, thoughts of Gary biting his lip and grunting filling his head.

Being confronted about partying all night with Rob and Gary by Jeannie a few days ago had felt more like an interrogation than a simple question. He’d been in a terrible mood anyway, Rob’s advice replaying through his mind. She hadn’t said anything more about it, but her lips had pursed and she hadn’t shown any concern for his foul mood. Seeing as his mood had obviously lightened after kissing Gary, everybody had commented on how happy he seemed--except her. In fact she hardly spoke to him at all.

So when she asked; “You seem a bit anxious to get out of here. Plans with Gary?” with thinly veiled cattiness, he shook his head.

“Me parents are comin’ down.” He hated having to lie, but telling her he was going to tear Gary’s clothes off and ravage every inch of him wouldn’t do him any favours, and it wasn’t her damn business anyway.

He hadn’t told anyone at work he and Gary were together now. Was it hypocritical of him to want Gary to come out to his parents when he wouldn’t tell anyone at work? Then again, did he really have to come out to them? Rob told him about the articles and how he’d confirmed it online. At what point did it become necessary for him to say anything about his personal life, anyway? They were his co-workers, not family. Perhaps Jeannie had asked only because she knew from Twitter. She’d probably seen right through his lie, then.

When work finally ended, he drove to his flat, though he had to take a detour due to a public bus crashing into a bakery. He took the quickest shower possible before getting ready, throwing on tight jeans and a pink v-necked tee with a frilly, white scarf. Before he could convince himself the scarf was too much, he rushed back to his car and sped to Gary’s house. Either he was lucky enough he wasn’t caught, or all the police were handling the bakery crash.

It wasn’t until he’d parked by the curb and stood on the porch that he stopped. Should he knock on the door or simply enter? Did he look stupid? Maybe Gary had changed his mind. Maybe neither of them were ready. They got carried away earlier; they’d simply lost themselves in the heat of the moment. That was much different than planning ahead of time and expecting something to happen. Was he rushing?

He raised his fist to knock, then Gary telling him he didn’t have to repeated in his mind. He reached for the doorknob, then shook his head and knocked anyway. 

The door opened and Gary stood there, in pressed khakis and a button-up shirt. Of course even the collar was fully buttoned. “Y’know, you can just come in, Mark. No need for knocking.” He stepped aside to let him in.

Mark walked in, heard the door shut, then spun on his heel. He wasted no time pulling Gary’s mouth to his, thrusting his tongue behind his teeth. Gary responded just as eagerly, wrapping his arms around him, tasting like minty toothpaste and smelling of aftershave. Mark didn’t realise he’d been leaning forward until Gary’s back hit the door, halting their movement entirely, and he settled between Gary’s legs, their zippers meeting. Gary’s hands pushed up Mark’s back, lifting his shirt but staying just underneath his shoulder blades, rubbing in circles and scratching lightly at the skin.

“Been thinking about doing that all day,” Mark said, foreheads pressed together.

“Been thinking about doing more than that, to be honest.” Gary’s voice was deeper and shot straight to Mark’s chest. So that _was_ his flirting tone, then?

“That so?”

Gary kissed along his jaw. “Been thinking about how you taste,” he kissed his neck, “and smell,” he nibbled at his ear, “and how good you’d feel inside me.”

That was the exact thing Mark wanted to hear. Expecting that Gary would want sex had seemed presumptuous, though probably just out of nerves. The last time Mark had had sex, he’d ended up with a black eye and no friends; of course he worried. The way Gary kissed him until he was breathless and ran his hands across his back quelled any fears of it ending badly.

Mark walked backwards while Gary pushed forward, tongues battling and hands flying across each other’s bodies. It wasn’t until Mark nearly tripped because the back of his leg hit the stairs that he pulled away. He held Gary’s hand and hurried up the stairs, giddiness filling him in a way he hadn’t felt since high school, sneaking out of class to make out with his boyfriend in the loo.

As soon as he set foot in Gary’s room, Gary came up behind him, hands on his waist, and started nuzzling his neck. 

“You have a nice room,” Mark whispered, closing his eyes while Gary nibbled his throat.

“Looks better with you in it.”

Mark chuckled, then turned around to kiss Gary’s mouth. “That was pretty cheesy, Gaz.”

“Whatever you say, honeybee.”

Mark eyed Gary’s shirt, slipping his hands upward. “All the way up here again?” He loosened the top button of Gary’s collar, exposing his adam’s apple.

“I know how you like to undo me.”

He kissed Gary’s adam’s apple, then the skin that the second button revealed. His mouth latched to Gary’s clavicle while he unbuttoned the rest of the shirt. He touched his exposed abdomen and inched his hands to his chest, sparse hairs tickling his wrist. He kissed his way up Gary’s throat until he reached his mouth, brushing his lips and working them open.

He pushed Gary’s shirt off his shoulders, deepening the kiss and sliding his hands down until they met his trousers. Instead of unzipping him, he merely palmed the front and rubbed.

Gary pulled away, eyes half-mast. He tugged Mark’s scarf slowly, the fabric sliding smoothly across the back of his neck, and dropped it to the floor. His hands slipped underneath Mark’s shirt and pulled upward. Mark lifted his arms above his head, eyes never leaving Gary’s, save for when the shirt passed over his face. It fluttered to the ground and Gary swooped in, chest-to-chest, to cup Mark’s face and kiss him.

They moved to the bed, Mark pressed into the mattress. Gary leaned over him, mouths sliding and nudging. His fingers skimmed over Mark’s ribs and stomach, sending shivers through him.

Gary worked his way down Mark’s torso, nipping his skin. He flicked his tongue just beneath Mark’s navel, then pressed a kiss to his tattoo. “So you’re sensitive here, yeah?” he murmured, lips barely brushing over his skin, his eyes darkening.

Mark went to grin, but ended up moaning instead. Gary sucked on the tattoo, hard, licking and biting. His cock hardened, pressed uncomfortably against his trousers, while Gary’s large hands roamed over his body, scratching and smoothing, while he mouthed his tattoo. Tongue sweeping over his skin over and over, Mark hissed and whimpered for more.

Gary moved to the front of Mark’s trousers, pressing his hot tongue to the denim. Mark pushed his head back into the pillow; he could feel the heat through the fabric. His erection strained against it, growing and pushing, and Gary scratched down Mark’s torso. He arched his back and grunted.

Sounds of his button popping free and the zip descending filled the room. Mark swallowed and raised his head to watch Gary peel back his trousers, his pants bulging. Gary breathed hot breath against his pants and Mark ached for contact, but instead Gary pulled his trousers off. He slid his hands up Mark’s legs slowly, before kissing his inner thigh and pulling off his pants as well.

His cock rested against his pelvis. Though hard, his foreskin still covered the head; it still wasn’t fully erect. Despite that, it was noticeably small. Mark had always been sensitive about his size. Not every person he’d been with had been polite, and more than a few had made “light-hearted” comments about how small he was. It was stupid, because Gary wasn’t like that, but he bit down on his lip worryingly anyway. Gary, however, simply stared at it with a devilish grin and lust in his eyes.

When Gary’s large hand fully enveloped his dick and gave a stroke, Mark sucked in a breath and held it. Stroking to the base pulled his foreskin back, exposing his head, but stroking upward covered it again. He stroked slowly, peppering light kisses to his inner thigh. It wasn’t until he was fully hard that Gary laid the flat of his tongue against the base and, in one long strip, licked to the top before enveloping the head.

Chest aching with held breath, Mark let out gasps of air, half resting on his elbows so he could watch his cock slide in and out of Gary’s wet mouth at an agonisingly slow pace. His tongue undulated and swirled, hands grasping his waist and pinning him in place. When Gary hummed, Mark threw his head back, pushed it into the pillow, and fisted the blankets beneath him.

Cold air brushed against his wet shaft and he opened his eyes. Where had Gary’s hot, wet mouth gone? Gary knelt between his spread legs, undoing his own trousers. With the zip undone and bulging pants visble, he dove back to Mark, sucking him deep into his throat.

Knees bent and feet flat against the mattress, he rolled his hips, pushing deeper into Gary’s throat, who hummed and moaned, the vibrations shooting pleasure through him. He cried out a word that almost sounded like Gary’s name, but not quite, and his cock plopped free, shining with saliva.

Gary crawled up his body and kissed him, roughly, cocks sliding together. Mark stuck his hands inside Gary’s pants to squeeze his bum and push their pelvises together, shafts sliding and bumping through the fabric covering Gary’s cock. Mark rolled so he was on top of Gary, knees squeezing his sides while he bent over to kiss him. He pulled away to straddle him, rolling his hips while he tried to catch his breath. Gary stared up at him, chest rising and falling, his hand stroking both of them at the same time. In this position, it was easy to see how much thicker and longer Gary was in comparison.

Feeling Gary’s trousers against the back of his thighs and his bum was starting to get uncomfortable. He worked his way down Gary’s body, mouthing and nipping his skin. He pulled free his trousers and pants, throwing them to the floor. He situated himself between Gary’s legs instead of straddling him and rocked his waist, grinding their bodies together. 

They met a slow rhythm of rocking and pushing. There wasn’t enough friction or lubrication; saliva and pre-ejaculate left him wanting more. “Do you still want to do this?” he breathed against Gary’s lips.

“Yes. Top drawer.”

He leaned over and opened the drawer. There was a half-used tube of lube beside a small box of tissues. Images of Gary holding himself under the blankets, biting his lip and grunting, spun around his mind and he grabbed the tube. “You don’t have any condoms?” He’d forgotten to grab anything at all, so perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. 

“I didn’t think to go out and get any.” Gary shifted on the bed. “I trust you, though, and I haven’t--er, you know. In years.”

Mark nodded, kneeling between Gary’s knees. He lathered himself with lube, then pressed his fingers against Gary’s hole. He rubbed the area until it was wet, then pulled his hand away. Gary spread his legs and smiled at Mark, nodding at him.

Sitting on his knees, one hand holding Gary’s thigh, he pushed inside slowly. Gary was tighter that he’d expected, tighter than anyone he’d ever been with. When he hissed and winced, it wasn’t in pleasure. Mark stilled, Gary’s heat surrounding him. “You okay?”

“It’s been awhile.” Gary’s face relaxed. “Keep going.”

Holding Gary’s waist, he moved deeper inside him. Watching Gary’s chest rise and fall, he tried to move in time with his breath. With each push inside him, Gary met him with a small thrust. The rhythmic rolling kept a slow pace, their breaths meeting and falling at the same time. He grasped Gary’s hips and held, guiding him while he moved into him.

Gary’s threw his head back, breath hitching. He squeezed his eyes shut and moved against Mark quicker, clutching at the blankets. The rhythm stuttered and Gary wrapped his legs around his back, squeezing tightly. Mark started jerking Gary, long, firm strokes at first, until Gary’s hips started bucking, then he focused mainly on the head, hand slipping over and over, pre-ejaculate slipping underneath his palm. 

Mark thrust into him faster, drawing rugged groans from Gary’s open mouth. He arched his back, Mark’s fist blurring over his cock. With a shout, Gary came, long streams of cum shooting through the air, splattering on his chest, while Mark rocked harder into him. Gary kept moving into him, wrapping his legs even tighter around his back, and Mark continued jerking him through his orgasm.

Gary went lax, his head tilted to the side, taking in deep long breaths. Mark stopped stroking and thrusting, though he gently rubbed him and moved, though only barely, back and forth. Gary’s breath hitched when he inhaled. He ran his hands across his face as if washing it.

Still inside of Gary, he lowered himself to kiss him, ankles at his shoulder blades. Chest slick with sweat and semen, they glided together. Gary’s fingers tangled into his hair, rocking quicker, forcing Mark deeper. He moaned into Gary’s mouth, nipping at his bottom lip and then jaw.

He sucked on Gary’s neck, nails pressed against his scalp. He clutched Gary’s shoulders, hips stuttering while he tried to keep the pace gentle and slow. Teeth tugged at his earlobe and he arched his back. Hands planted on either side of Gary’s head, he thrust deep, and pulled back slowly before thrusting deep again. Pleasure built at the small of his back, each push inside forcing a drawn-out vowel from his throat. 

He came hard, buried deep, and shouting. He collapsed, body jerking while he clutched, crying out into Gary’s skin. He was so warm and tight and solid beneath him, and he’d wanted this for so long; wanted to feel him and touch him, undo him and be undone by him, and now he lay atop him, shaking.

He could feel Gary’s hardness against his stomach, so he pulled out, limp. He slid down Gary’s body and stroked his cock, licking the tip and sucking gently. He pushed two fingers in his hole, wet with remnants of lube and semen. He sucked Gary deeper, rubbing his fingers back and forth, nudging around until Gary hissed; “There.” His hips jerked and he moaned, back arching and knees squeezing his head. 

He fingered and sucked until Gary tightened around his knuckles and came. He swallowed the first bit, but he couldn’t for all of it. He let it fall from his mouth, sliding down Gary’s cock, and pulled his fingers free.

Body shining with sweat, Mark stared down at Gary. He was beautiful, cheeks pink and cum across his stomach and chest. His eyes opened halfway and locked onto Mark’s, one side of his mouth curled into a lazy smile. Mark kissed him, legs sweaty and entwined. Gary pet his sweat-slicked hair behind his ear. 

“We should clean up,” Gary murmured, licking Mark’s mouth open.

He hummed his agreement, sinking against Gary instead of moving. 

Gary’s strong arms wrapped around him, tucking him into his chest. Being enveloped by him felt safe, and he didn’t want to let go of that. The last time he’d had sex, there’d been nothing safe or comforting about it; a quick, hard rut, and then falling asleep on opposite sides of the bed. Now, he poured into Gary, kissing him and touching his wet, sticky skin. His pliant lips moved beneath his, tongue brushing and flicking, and he wanted to soak in the afterglow forever.

* * *

After cuddling, sticky and naked, they’d gone to the master bathroom through the door in Gary’s room. There was another inside that led into the hallway beside a small closet with towels and cloths for washing. It was twice as large as Mark’s loo, if not three times, decorated in white and blue.

Washing each other in the hot shower led to embracing beneath the spray, faces buried in each other’s necks and chests pressed together. They didn’t speak, simply mapped each other’s bodies with their palms and lips. Fingertips skimmed down their backs like water, lips descending and brushing wet clavicles and shoulders. They lathered and rinsed each other slowly, holding each other, and didn’t leave until long after they’d pruned.

They both wore robes, fluffy and soft. As they were both Gary’s, the one Mark wore was too large and had to be tied tightly around his waist to be secure, but it was comfortable nonetheless. They were too lazy to cook anything so they microwaved TV dinners Gary said he’d have to get rid of by next week anyway. Afterward, they curled up on the sofa together, flipping through channels on Gary’s TV and getting sidetracked with each other’s caressing lips and skimming hands.

News of tsunamis in Asia and hurricanes in the States played on the screen and nothing else kept their attention, so Gary switched it off, holding Mark close and nuzzling him. Humming against each other, fingers playing invisible keys on their arms and necks, they kissed and smiled.

“Gaz? Was that your first time?” Everyone he’d been with had been quite experienced, so he had nothing else to draw contrast with. Nobody had ever winced like that or been so tight.

“No. Why?”

“You just seemed . . . uncomfortable.”

“It was a bit, at first. It got better real quick, though.” He kissed the tip of Mark’s nose, then pressed their foreheads together. “I haven’t been with a man since Brian.”

“Was he your first?”

Gary nodded once, noses bumping. “Yes. I fooled around a bit with someone in ‘97, but I was drunk. I kissed a boy at school when I was little, but that’s it, really.” He sighed. “I’ve been with five girls, I’m a terrible gay man.”

Mark hugged Gary tightly, laughing into his robe. “Oh Gaz, I’ve had sex with so many women I can’t count ‘em. We’re still gay.”

“Was I good?”

“You were better than good.”

Deciding to listen to music turned into Mark and Gary embracing in the middle of the living room, swaying back and forth no matter how fast or slow the song was. They kissed and necked with hands clasped between their bodies. When Gary softly sang Under My Skin, his eyes constantly searching his face, Mark couldn’t help but kiss him.

Dancing slowly, bodies flush together, their robes loosened and draped slightly. Gary’s hand sliding between the fabric and Mark tugging the collar aside to mouth his sternum was probably at fault, though. Working his way up his throat, pausing to suck on his adam’s apple, and to his mouth, searching it fervently, distracted them further.

Sirens sounded outside, barely audible through the walls and the music. Gary’s hand dipped lower into his robe, barely touching his tattoo, before wrapping around his side and pushing him into the kiss.

“It’s getting late,” Gary pointed out, licking Mark’s top lip. “Maybe you should stay the night.”

“Sounds nice.” He nudged Gary’s nose. “I forgot me toothbrush, though.”

“You can go a night without it.”

In the bedroom, they kissed and disrobed, sliding into bed and each other. They made love, Mark in Gary’s lap, his legs and arms wrapped around him, holding him closely. Feeling Gary inside and around him, mouth and hot air at his throat, was more than he could’ve ever hoped for. Slowly, they brought each other to shuddering, quiet orgasm, tears in their eyes and names on each other’s tongues. He wiped the moisture from Gary’s cheeks before wiping his own, and all that mattered was being able to hold each other after, beneath the blankets.

* * *

Mark woke alone.

He smoothed down the space of bed beside him; no residual heat.

As much as a punch to the face had hurt, this hurt far more. His heart sunk into his stomach and his chest ached as if he’d been put in a vice and crushed. The daylight streaming through the windows hit his eyes like knives, tears burning through his vision and slicing down his cheeks. The master bathroom door was open, so he could clearly see it was empty; the house was quiet, and no footsteps sounded from downstairs, nor flushing from the other bathroom. No sounds from the telly or music. It would’ve been their first morning together and who would leave after that? It was protocol to stay the first time, just to make sure, or at least leave a note on the pillow. He wouldn’t get bored and leave after everything; he’d wait for him to wake up, or do _something._

Of course it was too good to be true. A man who’d spent forty years in the closet wasn’t going to break out over _him._ What could he possibly do for Gary, give to him? They hadn’t known each other long and choosing to come out against his family’s wishes? People who he’d loved his entire life, over someone he’d known for months? It was ridiculous. Even if Gary had been adamant about coming out, thinking about it was different than actually doing it. Waking up in bed after sleeping with him for the first time, a day before he was to come out? Of course he’d panicked. What could Mark have expected?

Why had he let himself hope? He’d always been so naïve, and to his detriment. What had hoping ever done for him? Left him bankrupt and alone in bed in an empty house, that’s what.

He waited. He prayed he was overreacting. Maybe he’d hear something in two minutes. Five minutes. Ten.

At fifteen minutes, it was hopeless. He’d have at least heard something by now.

Having to get out of bed, naked, and find his clothes on the floor would destroy him. Getting out from underneath the blankets would be akin to surrendering; accepting that he’d been left, that Gary had changed his mind. He couldn’t do that; not now, not after everything.

He turned into his pillow and cried.

He should’ve listened to Rob. Of course Gary wasn’t going to come out, of course Gary was going to hurt him. It was inevitable really, and a part of him had felt it. He screamed into his pillow, swore, sobbed. How could he drive home after what had happened, as if he were a co-ed leaving a frat house the morning after a drunken fling? To have everything handed to him then yanked away was _cruel_ and he’d been stupid not to have planned for it.

The door opened.

Mark spun in bed, gulping in shaky breaths. Gary stood in the doorframe, blurry through tears.

Before Gary could speak, Mark leapt from bed and to him, hugging him so tightly he briefly worried if he was hurting him. “I thought you left me,” he croaked, still sniffling. He didn’t care that he was naked; Gary was here, with him. That was what mattered.

“Oh god no, never.” Gary forced Mark away from his neck, if only to stare into his eyes. “I would never leave you, I just bought you a toothbrush.” He raised the hand not holding his shoulder; indeed, there was a toothbrush.

Mark turned away, stomach sinking and cheeks hot. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

“No, Mark, after what happened before, of course you’d--I should’ve thought of that, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d be gone long, traffic was shit and the lines were--but I should’ve known you’d think that, c’mere.”

He pulled Mark into a tight hug, rubbing his back with the hand not holding the still-packaged toothbrush, hard plastic digging into his shoulder blade. Mark sniffed into Gary’s shoulder and clutched to his shirt; he’d been so scared, and over _nothing._

“Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll make you a cuppa? That okay?”

Mark nodded, still sniffing into his shoulder. “Okay.”

* * *

Gary left him alone to get dressed and brush his teeth, for which Mark was grateful. The fact he’d been sobbing was embarrassing enough, he didn’t need Gary sticking around for it. There was even a note taped to the mirror signed with X’s. He left his toothbrush in the cup beside the sink and put a cold washcloth against his face, hoping it would make his face and eyes less red.

When he went downstairs, a cup of tea and a bowl of oatmeal waited for him. He ate and sipped his tea quietly. Gary didn’t urge him to say or explain anything, though Mark wished he would.

His spoon scraped the empty bowl. “I knew he wasn’t out. Everybody thought he was straight, even I did at first. But he was different when we were alone. The things he said, the way he touched me . . . I just knew. We spent weeks just flirting with each other, making comments, innuendos. As soon as someone would show up, he’d back off. I should’ve just stopped. I wasn’t thinking when I kissed him. I shouldn’t have, he’d have never made the first move and I knew that, that’s why I did it. It was my fault.”

“No it wasn’t. You didn’t force him to do anything. If he panicked, he didn’t have to throw you under the bus, or fucking hit you.”

Mark shook his head, even though Gary had a point. “I knew he wasn’t ready to be out, ‘cause if he was, he would’ve been out. Now here I am, and I’m making you come out, and if you’re not ready--”

“Mark--”

“No, listen. We haven’t been together a week, and I’m sat here, telling you to do this. I don’t know what your family’s like, I had it easy.”

“This isn’t about you.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “Well, to a point yeah, but . . . I’m not doing this ‘cause I’m dating you. If I’m always waiting for when I’m ready, it’s not gonna happen. Mum and Ian aren’t gonna change. I guess I thought if I waited long enough one day they’d come around and wave rainbow flags and then, you know, _then_ I’d tell ‘em. And I knew it wouldn’t happen, so I knew I’d never do it.”

“So why now then?”

Gary opened his mouth, then shook his head and closed it. He sipped his tea, and when he clinked it against the saucer, he let out a sigh. “Allison left because I never loved her. It doesn’t matter how hard you try or pretend, people know when you don’t love them, and she wouldn’t stop crying, but she said she had to go. I broke her heart, seemed only fair I should help her pack. It was the least I could do. I uh . . . I hid your CDs from her. I couldn’t lose ‘em, because I knew I’d never let myself buy them. I dunno if she ever noticed or if she assumed she lost them, or if she knew I had them. I don’t know, but she never came looking. I helped her load her boxes into a lorry, and before she drove off, she said she wasn’t sure if I really even liked girls.

“She was sobbing, Mark. And Brian, he left the same way. Sobbing. And I can’t even try and lay the blame equally, you know? It was my fault. I’m not just hurting _me.”_

“But you’d be okay with it just hurting you?”

“I was.”

Mark shook his head. “Gaz, if they don’t deserve to be hurt neither do you.”

Gary reached across the table and squeezed Mark’s hand, brushing his thumb over his knuckles. “I know.”

* * *

Nobody had ever touched him the way Gary did, and Mark had been with many people. There had been people who’d practically manhandled him, shoving and pushing and roughing him as they tore off each other’s clothes and screamed their way through the night. There had been even more people that had treated him like he was fragile; touched him as if one wrong angle or too much force would shatter him. Neither were bad, of course. Mark liked it rough as much as anyone else did, and he liked it gentle too. Somehow, though, Gary did neither; he was soft without treating him like spun glass, rough without leaving him feeling used.

Singing A Million Love Songs in the studio, smiling into each other’s faces, harmonising, had turned into their lips crashing together as soon as the song ended, stumbling to the bedroom with clothes in their wake. Last night had been all about making love; today, it was about riding Gary’s stiff, hard cock and jerking himself, the headboard slamming against the wall, until Gary warned him he was getting close, and Mark threw his head back, shouting; “I’m coming, I’m coming!” until he made a mess of Gary’s chest and collapsed.

He’d dreamt about kissing Gary after singing that song with him before, many times. Long before he’d actually ever met him, but finally being able to really do that? It was a literal dream come true. Having sex with him was the icing on the cake.

They hardly left the studio for the rest of the day. There was a sofa against the back wall, facing the glass partition and the mic, in the recording half of the studio, where they ate their lunch and talked when taking breaks from singing. After singing to songs Gary had pre-recorded ages ago, they set up the keyboard and played new ones; Gary convinced Mark to sing Believe in the Boogie. Staring at Gary, singing to him, felt as though it were made for him. It was especially relevant to his situation, and playing a slower, piano-only version of the song infused more emotion into it than he’d felt even while writing it.

Morning afters were never this amazing; not in his experience, anyway. Maybe he’d been a pop star for too long, and in between relationships had had too many one night stands, but even former relationships, the first day after had always been awkward; carefully worded sentences, lapses into uncomfortable silence, and leaving after a few hours to go home. It wasn’t a bad thing, of course; it was perfectly natural to be uneasy in a new situation, and when adding sexual aspects to any relationship for the first time, it was doubly so. With the exception of Mark’s irrational fear (Gary had even left a text as well as the note) everything went smoothly. Everything from silences to cuddling was comfortable, as if they’d had hundreds of days like this before.

Even when Rob rang to talk with Mark and he excused himself, he didn’t feel shame in talking with him for a half hour. Naturally, Rob had to crack a few jokes when Mark said he’d spent the night with Gary, though he quickly congratulated him. Discussing Ayda and Teddy took up most of the conversation, though he’d initially wanted to tell him about the radio interview he had early the next morning. Kissing and telling was something Mark wasn’t always into, but with Gary, he felt no shame in giving a vague description of how it went (“Amazing, Rob, can’t remember the last time I had sex that good,”) and Rob teased him for it.

Being friends with Robbie Williams, surprisingly, had caused relationship problems in the past. Envious boyfriends (either because they wanted to be Rob, or simply _wanted_ him) caused more than a few prospects to end before getting anywhere serious, and there had been several who either didn’t trust Mark with him for whatever reason or hated Rob entirely. His last boyfriend had, understandably, wanted nothing to do with him and had, on multiple occasions, tried to talk Mark out of his friendship, due to Rob’s excessive drug use and partying.

Gary, however, didn’t care. He asked how Rob was doing, about Ayda and Teddy, and if they had a nice talk. No jealousy or resentment. Though it wasn’t entirely new, it was rare enough for it to be relieving. He even said he’d listen to the interview too, if Mark woke him up in time.

“Is that an invitation to spend another night?”

“If you want.”

For dinner, they made pasta together. When Mark smeared Gary’s nose and cheek with sauce, Gary chased him down. Mark pretended to put up a fight, but Gary wouldn’t have been able to write ‘honeybee’ on his forehead if he’d actually struggled. 

When Mark asked Gary if he had extra pyjamas, he gave him a baggy vest top and gym shorts that looked too large for Gary, too. Mark pulled the drawstrings tight, though his shorts hung low enough to show his tattoo. Gary wore an old tee and sweats. They held each other under the blankets, talking until they fell asleep, hands curled together and sharing breath.


	15. Silence Please

Waking to Rob’s voice wasn’t exactly what Gary pictured.

It wasn’t Rob who woke him; it was Mark getting into bed and resting his head on his chest, though hearing Rob first thing in the morning was a bit confusing. It wasn’t until the radio host brought up killer wasps in Asia the length of Robbie’s hand that Gary remembered he was having an early morning interview.

_“The size of my hand? Mate do you know how big me hands are?”_

Mark chuckled into Gary’s sternum, fingers idly drawing circles around his navel. Gary opened his eyes and kissed the top of Mark’s head. “Morning.”

“Oh did I wake you?”

“You were supposed to, remember?”

_“This doesn’t scare you, these killer wasps?”_

_“I panic when there’s a normal wasp within a foot of me, I’d be cryin’ for me mum if one that size was after me.”_

Mark rolled off Gary, only to plop on his stomach beside him, resting on his elbows. “Well you looked so peaceful.”

“I’m always peaceful.”

“No, you’re grumpy. Grumpy Gary.”

“Oh, don’t be awful,” he mimicked in his best Mark-voice (which was flawless and sounded just like him, if he did say so himself).

Mark gasped dramatically, though it quickly turned into a grin and a laugh. He leaned over and kissed Gary.

_“. . . Ayda has to go full Xena when there‘s a spider in the house, y‘know? I‘m off screamin’ on a chair, tellin’ her to grab Teddy and save themselves . . .”_

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re funny, Gaz?”

“Funny-lookin’ maybe.”

“Oh don’t be awful.” Gary quirked an eyebrow at him. Mark glared good-naturedly in return. “You’re not funny lookin’. You’re gorgeous.”

“You didn’t see me in the nineties. Bleached hair, stickin’ out to here, had it that way for years.”

“I fancied you back then, remember?”

“S’not like I didn’t have a dream or two about you either, Mark.” Mark tilted his head. “Your face was everywhere. Trust me, you made a few appearances.”

_“. . . know how that goes, tryin’ to be the manly-man and your mum walks in.”_

Mark smirked before swinging a leg over his waist and straddling him. The vest top, which was too large even for Gary (though hadn’t always been) practically dwarfed Mark, one sleeve half down his shoulder, wide neck hanging low enough he could see his nipples. “You’ll have to tell me about these dreams sometime.”

“Pretty sure that there was a re-enactment yesterday.” Gary slid his hands up the too-large purple shorts and along his warm thighs.

Mark rolled his hips, bum rubbing against Gary’s stiffening shaft. Yesterday, seeing his slick-with-sweat chest shine in the light and smooth hands ghosting over his tattoo while he rode him had been amazing, but kissing him at the end of A Million Love Songs had been a literal dream come true.

Of course, there was no need to be specific.

_“So you’re still doing tours, right? Gotta say, people love your tours, Robbie.”_

“Memory’s not as good as it used to be.” Mark scrunched Gary’s shirt in his palms. 

_“. . . love touring, really, but dunno how much longer I can keep at it. I’m a dad now and that’s the best thing in the world, really, that’s what I want to do.”_

“Maybe you could use a refresher.” His palms slid all the way up to where Mark’s soft thighs met his groin. Mark wasn’t yet hard, but he was certainly getting there by the feel of things.

“I’m thinking I do. But first, I gotta wee.”

_“. . . it can get hard, staying away from drugs, bein’ a proper rock star and all.”_

Mark slid off the bed and went into the loo, leaving the door open. Gary grinned, as excited as he’d been as a boy on Christmas morning. In the end, he was still going to be doing some unwrapping, though. Listening to Mark pee and Robbie talk about admitting himself into rehab years ago was hardly romantic foreplay, but the anticipation was making up for that.

From where he was on the bed, he could see the sink clearly. Mark stepping in front of it, shorts hanging low enough he could see the top of Mark’s bum, was all it took for Gary to give up on waiting a few extra seconds. He opened his drawer in the beside table and grabbed the tube of lube.

He came up behind Mark, their eyes locking in the mirror when he put the lube on the sink. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen, pulling him close. Mark rubbed his hands under the water, one corner of his mouth lifting.

_“Well one of your band mates died of an overdose, didn’t he?”_

_“I wish that had been what got me to go to rehab. But no, it wasn’t Charlie who did it. I kept it up even after that for years, I was too far gone. Addiction, you know, it’s an ugly, ugly place.”_

Mark turned off the sink and Gary kissed down the side of his throat, pressing his tongue against his pulse point. He slipped his hand across the tattoo and into his shorts. He grasped his cock and held it gently. A soft, warm sigh puffed against Gary’s temple. 

He stroked him sluggishly, without a firm grip. Mark tilted his head back further and swallowed audibly. Gary could feel his adam’s apple bob and hear his breath, quiet though it was, catch on every slow inhale.

_“Speaking of band mates, I heard you had a night out with Mark Owen last week. How was that; you two still close?”_

_“Yeah, he’s me li’l buddy. Nicest man you’ll ever meet, I swear it.”_

The solidity of Mark’s back and warmth seeping through his sagging clothes anchored him. Before now, Mark had taken the reins, but he had them now. Relinquishing control was invigorating, but taking it was freeing too, especially as he hadn’t let himself in years. He’d been content to go with the flow instead of making waves, but not anymore.

Mark hardened in his hand, stiffening with each slide from base to tip, foreskin gliding with his palm. He gripped tighter, and the pulse in his throat matched the one in his cock.

Gary pressed into Mark’s bum, rubbing himself against him. The thin fabric of his sweats and the shorts did little to relieve the aching throb. He rutted against him and pulled away from his throat to breathe. His heart thudded against his sternum when Mark rocked backward, forcing more friction.

_“. . . funny ‘cause Mark, y’see, he had the biggest crush on Gary when his first album came out, and I used to take the piss all the time.”_

_“Well a lot of people assumed they were writing an album together. Is there any truth to that, or are they just dating?”_

_“Haven’t heard anything . . .”_

Watching Mark’s pupils dilate and mouth drop open in the reflection, his own fist working underneath the purple shorts, fabric rippling with every jerk, made him harder. He pulled his hand free, though only to grab the lube beside the sink.

He pushed the shorts just under Mark’s bum, then squirted a liberal amount into his palm. He stuffed his hand into his sweats and started lathering himself.

_“. . . mean it’s not gonna happen, if I know Mark one day’ll he pull another record together. I’m sure Gary would love . . .”_

He stroked himself until he was fully erect and the lube warmed. He pulled himself out of his sweats and gripped Mark’s waist to hold him steady. He pushed slowly into Mark, muscles hot and tightening around him, until he was fully inside.

“Oh my God, Gaz,” Mark whispered, clutching the sink basin. His eyes squeezed shut in the reflection, his lips pinching tightly closed.

His other hand went to the other side of Mark’s waist, slipping under his vest top and clutching his warm skin. He pulled back slowly, clenching his teeth. “So good, Jesus,” he moaned, pushing in as slowly as before.

_“Gaz is great, too. Had loads of fun with him last week, he’s hilarious. Sweet, too. Funny thing, he actually auditioned for Take That . . .”_

“Don’t stop,” Mark ordered quietly, hands clutching the porcelain so tightly his knuckles were white.

Gary groaned as he thrust into him, hard but unhurried. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Through the mirror, Gary could see the bulge at the front of the purple shorts. Mark backed against him, forcing him in deeper. Gary swallowed a moan and reached into the shorts to jerk him.

_“. . . would’ve been best mates, the three of us, I like to think.”_

The acoustics in his bathroom were good enough it echoed their breath, shaking and catching. The occasional moan slipped out, a whispered encouragement or swear. Pre-cum leaked into Gary’s palm. He stroked harder and faster.

Seeing not only Mark’s expression shift with mounting pleasure, but his own, had a sense of erotic detachment. His eyebrows furrowed and mouth fell into an O, pushing breath after breath out with raw force, while Mark’s jaw dropped wide and he shook with his stuttered sucks of air.

Blood whooshed and pounded in his ears, heat pouring into his cheeks and chest and spine. Judging by the small, erratic jerks Mark made and the way he was tightening against him, he couldn’t be far off. Gary himself was getting close, but he kept his thrusts slow.

“You’re making me come,” Mark whined through gritted teeth, then threw his head back. He let out a long, loud cry, spilling over Gary’s hand. Gary didn’t stop; kept rubbing, pumping every last drop out of him, pinching his mouth closed to keep his own shouts buried. Hot, sticky spurts filled his palm, running over the back of his hands and knuckles, dripping down his wrist.

He clenched and unclenched around him, tighter with every push inward, as quick as an erratic heartbeat. He was so warm--burning, even--that hot sparks of pleasure shot through his cock and bones. Mark’s moans that came with his every exhale sounded so close to sobbing, and his body still jerked with each thrust Gary gave him. Seeing their expression and hearing Mark’s unrestrained noises pushed Gary over the edge, and he shoved in, hard.

He came, shouting and uncaring how throaty and needy it sounded echoing back to him. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly the black gave way to white and blue bursts of electric comets, forehead on slick skin and mouth opened against dry cotton.

He came down from his orgasm, shaking, throat and tongue dry, Mark’s chest rising and falling beneath his chest unsteadily. Knees weak, he pulled out of Mark, semen already sliding down his cock and dripping from Mark in streams.

Sound came rushing back to him in waves while he pulled up his sweats; their uneven breathing, Rob’s loud laughter, his heart in his ears. His gulp stung his dry throat. Mark held to the sink as if it kept him upright, and Gary couldn’t blame him; his legs and arms were rubber.

Mark turned around and drew him into a kiss. His skin was still sensitive, so each caress of lips tingled and touch sent him shivering. 

_“That’s great actually, it’s funny ‘cause just last night Ayda was saying the same thing!”_

Rob dissolved into laughter again and Gary appraised Mark; hair damp and dishevelled, vest top a sticky mess and a wet stain on the front of his shorts. His reflection showed him in a similar state. His skin itched with sweat and his clothes stuck to his body.

They were filthy, but he’d never been happier.

* * *

They showered together and ate a quick breakfast. Mark left in the clothes he’d arrived in, kissing Gary goodbye and wishing him luck. At least he’d started Tuesday with great sex; he doubted it would end as wonderfully as it started.

Spending Sunday night and all of Monday with Mark had been a good distraction, but had also brought him closer to coming out faster. Should he bring it about slowly, or would it be best to do it like tearing off a bandage? He’d always had his head so far off in the future, planning conversations and events and what to say and how to say it, so he’d imagined dozens of ways he could go about it; segues, jokes, being blunt. He’d imagined hundreds of retorts, ranging from passive-aggressive quips, to a violent fist fight with Ian (which he’d spectacularly lose). It wouldn’t be as bad as the latter obviously, but he couldn’t hope for something as good as the former.

He didn’t have to start getting ready until three, but he flipped through channels as listlessly as he played piano, fingers tripping and voice cracking when he tried to sing. On multiple occasions he’d nearly dialled Mark to ask him for support, then shook his head and put his mobile down. It wasn’t about Mark and he had to rely on himself, no matter how difficult.

He set up the dining room with a blue tablecloth and plates he normally reserved for special occasions, though nothing as fancy as his mother had. He spent more time than necessary smoothing wrinkles free and making sure the glasses and silverware were perfectly situated. 

Cooking didn’t alleviate his nerves as much as wanted. Time ticked by, faster every time he glanced at a clock. He stirred and strained and boiled, steam hitting his face and palms sweating from the heat.

When he finished cooking, he changed his clothes. Khakis and a green turtleneck to hide bite marks and kissing bruises; nothing fancy, but he didn’t want to be casual. It wasn’t until he had finished brushing his teeth and caught his reflection in the mirror that it hit him.

He had no idea what he was doing.

Did people normally have dinners when they came out? Did they feed their families? Did it have to be a conversation? He had so many openers and ways of actually saying it spinning in his mind and he didn’t know which one he’d pick. He had more food than any of them would eat and a tablecloth he’d never used in a dining room he avoided. 

He hadn’t researched anything. He hadn’t read any articles about how to do this best. He didn’t visit any blogs sharing various coming out stories. He was flying completely blind.

“I’m gay,” he stated, staring at his reflection. He watched the words leave his mouth; the way his lips moved. “I’m gay.” He focused on how it sounded; the harsh G in an otherwise soft word. “I’m gay.” It wasn’t a sentence or a label; it was two very simple words that, when strung together, described him.

It described years of being a teenager, locked away in his room writing about a boy he couldn’t have, and noticing how attractive men were every time he went out and hoping that his family didn’t see him staring. It described years of kissing women with his eyes closed, sinking into them on his bed as an adult, and feeling nothing deeper than physical pleasure. It was a lifetime of him wanting to _be_ Elton in every way, being able to wear his sexuality on his sleeve but knowing he couldn’t. 

Once he told them, every memory of him would change. Every song he wrote, every friend he had, everything would alter. Whoever they saw him as, whoever they thought he was, would be obliterated. The man in their minds wasn’t him, but it was the person he wanted them to picture. And now, now he was showing them the reality of himself. Whatever love they thought they felt couldn’t be real, because they loved someone else entirely. The idea of losing that love . . . .

A quick succession of knocks sounded.

With a hard swallow, he left the bathroom. The staircase steepened and stretched in length, and maybe he couldn’t do this.

His mum kissed his cheek when the door opened and Ian clapped him on the back. “Go down to the dining room, I’ll bring the food down in a minute,” he said, gesturing towards the hallway.

“I’ll help,” Ian offered with a smile.

When Gary picked up a serving dish, Ian squeezed his shoulder with a nod. He caught Gary’s eyes, obviously intentionally, but Gary couldn’t process why he would; his mind was too focused on everything else to even begin to fathom what Ian was trying to say with his smile and widened eyes. Gary grabbed another dish with his other hand, and Ian did the same. Gary led him to the dining room where Mum sat waiting for them. Gary went back to the kitchen for a pitcher of ice water, heart thumping the whole way.

“So how’s Mark doing?” Ian asked not long into the dinner. Gary hadn’t even finished his peas.

“He’s good. Doing really well.”

He heard his mum chewing and Ian’s fork scraping against his plate. He opened his mouth, but no words came into mind. He grabbed his glass of water and swallowed to alleviate his dry throat. 

Ian launched into talking about Lisa and their children; about how it’s so important to have someone to trust and share everything with, because without her, he didn’t know how he could’ve handled the terrible day he’d had. Gary let out a sigh of relief. That could’ve easily led into him having to come out. He was going to have to do it tonight, but he wanted them to at least eat first. He listened politely, encouraging him to talk more about her and the kids. Though Ian wasn’t always particularly talkative, there were a few topics he could get lost in, and his family was one of them. Today was no different, though he was more invested in how amazing love was than normal. Perhaps he’d seen something romantic on telly recently.

“It’s a shame she couldn’t make it,” Mum said, taking a sip of her water.

Gary was glad she hadn’t come. It was hard enough with just the two of them. With Lisa and the kids there too, it would’ve only made it harder.

“It’s all right. She says hi, of course.” Ian nodded in Gary’s direction.

Gary smiled at him, then looked down at his plate. He was already finished, though he could see that they still had some food left.

“This is such a lovely dinner, dear.”

“It really is, Gary.”

“I’m gay.”

Silence.

It wasn’t even the quiet type of silence. It was the screaming silence that came in deafening shouts. Blood rushing past his ears crashed like waves in a storm at sea and the ringing tinnitus went off like sirens warning him of an upcoming hurricane. 

“What did you say?” He barely heard his mum’s voice over his heart booming like thunder.

“I’m gay.” He stared at his glass of water, peripherals blurring. His fingers tapped against the table quickly, filling the room with the pat-pat-pat of nails against wood.

“What?!” She stood suddenly, chair squeaking against the floor and silverware dropping to the plate with unnatural, high-pitched scrapes. “You’re _what?!”_

Gary opened his mouth, but a weak, choked noise squeezed out instead of words. He tapped quicker against the tablecloth. This wasn’t going how he’d planned. Then again, he had hardly planned at all.

“He’s gay, Mum.”

“What?! But--but how--how did this--how did this happen?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the dining room was so bright it stung his eyes. “It’s just how it is, Mum.”

“No, no, no, that’s not how things are! That is _not_ how things are, that isn’t how God made us, you know that Gary, you _know_ that!”

“Mum, it’s just--it’s just how it is, okay? I didn’t want to be--I never _wanted_ this.” That, unfortunately, was the truth. He’d hated it for so long, wanted anything else. He wanted to be straight and he’d prayed for it so many times he’d lost count. He’d wanted to be like Ian, to be like everyone else, the way his parents expected him to be, but simply wanting something enough to make your stomach twist and clench into knots didn’t make it happen.

She shook her head still and paced away from the table. “No, no something--something must’ve--” She spun and pointed at him. “This is about Mark. It was him, wasn’t it? I told you! I told you not to go, he must’ve--”

“It wasn’t Mark!” He slammed his hands down on the table and stood. His mum blinked at him, mouth open. Ian sat still, pointedly staring ahead of himself. “This isn’t about anyone but me, I’m doing this for me! I’ve been this way forever, Mum! You _know_ that!”

“I know no such thing! Something happened in London, something made you--”

“You saw me kiss him! You saw me kiss Timmy when I was seven, you _saw_ it!”

“No, no, you were young, it didn’t mean--” She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, and Gary felt the prickle of water at his own eyes. “You didn’t realise what you were doing.” Her voice broke and she leaned forward, resting her hands on the table, chest heaving with her broken gasps. “You’re not gay.”

He clenched at the tablecloth. “I’ve always been.”

“I’d rather you were dead.”

He sat, hard, the dining room shifting out of focus.

That was the one thing, the _one thing,_ he’d known she wouldn’t say. He’d even told Mark as such, that she wouldn’t. He’d planned on saying so much more; that it wasn’t about Mark, that it was about being tired of living a lie and wanting to stop hiding what made him happy. That it was about sharing himself entirely with the people he cared about most and that she had gay friends, didn‘t she? She had to know on some level it was okay then, right? None of that mattered though, none of it would ever be said because she leant against the table sobbing, and Gary sat, tears streaming down his face. No words came to mind; nothing. Just that his mother wished he were dead.

She left the dining room, face pressed into her hands.

Ian bowed his head across from Gary for a second that lasted an hour. He raised it again, eyes meeting his. “I’ve known for awhile.” 

Gary looked away from Ian and instead focused on his fork, trying as hard as he could to keep his breath even. He failed. “You did?” 

“I figured that’s what this dinner was for.”

Gary swallowed. He wished he could say he was surprised. “I see.” 

“Mum will come around, she always does.”

He didn’t want her to come around. He wanted her to accept it without hesitation and love him. Instead, she didn’t even want him living.

“No offence Ian but now isn’t really the time.”

Ian nodded once and left the table. He made it as far as the archway before he froze, and turned back to face him. “Mark makes you happy, right?”

Gary sniffed. “Yeah.”

With that, Ian left, food and nearly empty plates still on the table, perfect glasses with varying levels of water and condensation dampening the tablecloth below the pitcher.

Gary waited until he heard the front door slam to start crying.

* * *

Mark sat at the break room table, repeatedly checking his phone for texts. He’d waited all night for Gary to tell him how it went. Though he always tried to be optimistic, he doubted silence was a good omen. When he woke this morning, his phone was still empty, so he texted Gary a good morning and hoped he’d respond. He didn’t. He hadn’t even come in yet, either, despite it being Wednesday.

“So my neighbours, they’re . . . you know, the religious type,” Sandy said with a long sigh.

“Are they?” Jeannie asked, taking a sip of coffee.

“Yeah. They were over last night, I was babysitting their daughter, who’s only four, and they started talking to me about that earthquake in Greece a few days ago. Did you hear about that?”

Mark absently shook his head and Jeannie made a noise that he couldn’t decipher as either a yes or no.

“Well so they started talking about this weird weather we’ve had. You know, the heat wave over the summer, it’s still pretty hot now even, and the earthquake in Greece, there was a tsunami and apparently suicide rates have been going up--you know, that sort of stuff. So they’re talking to me about that, and in front of their daughter, they start talking about the apocalypse. And I don’t mean in vague terms, like some far off thing that might happen someday, they are seriously sitting here talking about how the world is going to end, like, this year. Fire, brimstone, Second Coming, the righteous being saved and everyone else being damned to eternal torture. In front of their daughter!”

_Did everything go okay?_

He figured the least he could do was ask. Maybe that was what Gary needed.

“I don’t have a problem with religion, I don’t. I believe in God myself, but this is ridiculous. Every year the news makes everything . . . bigger than it is. It’s all sensationalist crap, you know? Their little girl is sat there, crying, because she’s worried about the end of the world.”

Jeannie clinked her cup against the table. “Well, maybe the world is ending.” Sandy raised an eyebrow at her. Jeannie rolled her eyes. “I’m kiddin’, yeah?”

Sandy chuckled. “Sorry, you’d think that would be obvious wouldn't you? But after spending two hours listening to them talk about being Saved and wanting me to come to church with them because they’re honestly worried about my eternal soul? Over, what? An earthquake? I mean, yeah, lots of people died and that’s sad, but it’s not anything new.” She snorted. “Media’s always been like that. Nobody’s going to pay attention if it sounds so normal and same as last year, so they always treat it like it’s worse. It’s a ratings grab, really.”

“Actually,” Jeannie began, slowly, “I’ve looked it all up. Suicide rates have tripled, car collisions are five times higher, and drug overdoses are doubled. The tsunami that happened recently caught everyone off-guard and there were two more earthquakes, one in Italy and, er, I can’t remember, but somewhere in Asia. I think there was some sort of explosion in Germany two weeks ago and it started this fire, burned down two miles of city. It wasn’t reported on because it was a poor district, but yeah. It is, statistically, a lot worse this year than it has been for awhile.” She stirred her coffee idly, blank-faced and staring.

Sandy shifted in her chair. “Um . . . .”

Jeannie blinked and cleared her throat. “I’m just sayin’ that if you were one of the people who worried about the end of the world, this would be something that you’d notice. Think about the plague, you know? I’m sure everyone thought the world was ending during the plague, or at the start of World War One.”

Mark’s phone beeped.

_no it didnt_

He couldn’t even say he was surprised. _I’m so sorry Gaz. Is there anything I can do?_

“I just don’t like how it’s perfectly acceptable to make your own kid cry because she’s scared that she’s gonna die and go to hell. You’d think that religion would be all about hope or something, not fear.”

Jeannie snorted. “Nobody really _believes_ in happy endings because it’s stupid, innit? Happiness is a myth. Life sucks. Even when you’re playing pretend.”

Sandy’s mobile alarm went off. She’d changed it since he last saw her. “Your alarm’s new,” Mark pointed out.

She shut it off. “Yeah. It’s Not My Time, 3 Doors Down.” He looked at Jeannie as she stood. “I don’t believe that, you know. That happiness is a myth. Just because you’re unhappy doesn’t mean everyone else has a shit life and they’re just too naive to see it.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, pursing her lips in Jeannie’s direction.

Jeannie shrugged. “I guess that’s why you’re an insomniac stuck in a diner with poems on receipts instead of a published book then, right?”

If looks could kill, she would’ve died then and there.

Sandy opened her mouth and pointed. Mark was about to try and diffuse the situation, but instead of shouting she clenched her teeth and stormed out of the break room. She slammed the door hard enough to make Mark jump.

With a sigh, Jeannie stood from the table and left through the door leading out back, where Mark used to smoke. She slammed the door just as hard.

Just a few months ago, Jeannie had been a kind woman who had stumbled across him moving into his flat and not only helped him carry boxes inside, but offered him a job. She was the same woman who’d had Sandy doubled over in laughter his first day at work and had stood up to John when he’d made an inappropriate comment to one of the teenaged waitresses. Now she snapped at the slightest provocation and couldn’t go a day without yelling at _someone._

When his phone beeped a few seconds later, he checked to see that Gary had replied. 

_do you think you could stay the night ?_

_Of course I can_

It wasn’t much, but if it was what Gary wanted, it was the least he could do.

* * *

As much as he would’ve liked to get ready for Gary’s right after work, when he saw Sandy leaving the diner a few feet ahead of him, he couldn’t let her go without saying something. He jogged ahead so he could open the door for her, smiling. She nodded her thanks at him, and he fell into step beside her. “What Jeannie said, that was uncalled for.”

“I know it was. She apologised, of course. She’s been having a rough time lately.” She scuffed the ground and forced a smile at him. “Really, it’s fine. We all have bad days.”

“You didn’t have to cover Carlo’s shift today. You came in as a favour, and she said that to you? Don’t mean to be awful, but no, it isn’t fine.”

“John is taking a full day from him to spite her, you know that right? Besides, it’s true. It’s not like I have much going on in my life, is it?”

“Don’t say that. She was wrong, okay?”

Sandy sighed. “I don’t know, Mark. She’s done so much for this place, and she got you this job, even. I think she deserves a bad day here and there. Anyway, we talked about it. Everything’s fine, don’t worry about me.” She stopped beside the driver’s side of her car. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. Have a good evening, all right?”

She smiled briefly at him before shutting the door sharply. He waved at her once more as she started the engine.

He walked in the other direction, pulling his keys from his pocket. Someone pulled into the spot beside his car and got out, locking the door behind herself. She turned around and nearly walked right into him. He stepped back just in time, but if he hadn’t been watching her, she would’ve trodden on his toe. “Oh, I’m sorry, I almost ran into you,” he apologised anyway, though he was in no danger of doing so.

“It’s okay, really.” 

She smiled at him and tucked her hair behind her ear. He’d seen her before, but he couldn’t remember where. “Do I know you? You seem familiar.”

“We haven’t met but I’m sure Steve’s shown you a picture of me before.”

Oh, his name was _Steve._ He’d have to remember it. He’d always been too embarrassed to ask, but he never wore his nametag whenever they did see each other so he could never sneak a look. “Oh, right. You’re the new waitress. So did the background check come in yet?”

She nodded. “Yes, it did. I’m actually just dropping in to see if I have a schedule yet. I know I’m working night shift, but I have no idea when I start. I’m hoping sometime this week.”

“John always leaves at four, but Jeannie’s still here. You’ve met her, right?” She nodded. “Good. Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Mark.” He extended his hand.

She shook it, grinning widely at him. Her grip dislodged something in the back of his mind; a word or thought, but he wasn’t quite sure. “I’m Neva.”

“It’s good to meet you, Neva. I’ll see you around.”

He walked past her car and towards his. He’d unlocked the door and grabbed the handle before he looked up at her again, walking away with her hips swaying in a familiar pattern. Steve hadn’t shown him anything on his phone, let alone a picture of his girlfriend. He heard she came in every now and then but she was always seated in Steve’s area. Even still, he must’ve seen her face in the crowd enough to recognise her. At least now she could be officially hired. Maybe with that position filled, Jeannie wouldn’t be so stressed. Not that it was any excuse for her behaviour, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth if she were more pleasant because of it.

* * *

Since Gary bought him a toothbrush he didn’t need to pack too much, though he still had to take deodorant, shampoo, and conditioner. Though he changed out of his uniform and put it in the laundry, he packed his back-up uniform for work tomorrow. 

Gary’s coming out hadn’t gone well, but what exactly did that mean? What could Mark possibly do or say? It wasn’t something he could just make better. He didn’t even have personal experience to draw upon--he’d been lucky to have open-minded parents. Especially considering the era he grew up in, having people who were completely accepting was rare, and he’d landed with a family that openly embraced and cared about all walks of life. He’d never have to choose between respecting and loving his family and respecting and loving himself. How was he supposed to comfort a man who’d had to do just that?

He parked in the garage. He nearly knocked on the door leading to the kitchen, but he stopped himself in time and walked in as casually as he would his own home. He followed the sound of the television to see Gary on the sofa in a tee and sweats. “Hope you don’t mind that I let meself in.”

“It’s good, don’t worry. I um, I don’t have much to eat. We could reheat yesterday’s leftovers if you’re hungry.”

Mark waited for Gary to say something else; mention what had happened with his family, or at least make a vague comment. Instead he focused on the TV, though it wasn’t anything interesting. Mark wasn’t fond of the news and Gary hadn’t ever said anything to insinuate he either cared or didn’t. Yet he acted as if a plane crash in France killing Emma Ferguson and her husband was of the utmost importance to him. Mark’s heart sank at the news (more than he’d have expected it to), but that wasn’t why he had been asked to spend the night.

Maybe Gary didn’t want to talk about it and just needed the company. Maybe he wasn’t ready yet. Either way, Mark had to do what was right for Gary, so he nodded. “All right. I’ll just put these in the loo first.”

By the time he’d put everything away and started reheating the leftovers in the fridge, the news was reporting on a long lost dog finding its way home to its owners. As silly as it was, perhaps that was the entire reason Gary had cared about the news that day, because as soon as it ended the channel changed, though Mark couldn’t decipher what he was watching.

He sat beside Gary and handed him a plate of reheated peas and chicken with gravy. They ate in silence and laughed at the sitcom, even though Mark hadn’t seen any episodes before so he didn’t know the characters. It was easy enough to follow, as all sitcoms were, and though he normally would’ve cleaned the dishes as soon as he finished eating, he waited until the end of the episode because Gary rested his head on Mark’s shoulder and threaded their fingers together.

He took the plates to the sink. There were dishes left from the night before in the basin, and Mark didn’t know what else to do, so he filled it with soapy water and started scrubbing. He couldn’t take back whatever happened with Gary’s family or make it better, but he could do the dishes.

Had he spent all day cooking and prepping? What had he worn? Had he treated it like a special occasion only to have his moment knocked out from beneath him? It seemed somehow silly to turn a coming out into a fancy dinner, and yet what else was there to do? He’d never had to do anything; he’d just brought home a boy one day and that was it. Had he been in a situation where he needed to come out, he might’ve done the same thing. Only instead of his efforts going to waste, they would’ve simply been acknowledged with a smile.

When he finished rinsing the dishes in the basin filled with hot water, he placed them in the rack beside the basin. Even though they had lapsed into long silences before, comfortable ones, this one weighed heavy. The dialogue from the living room and dishes clinking against the rack were obtrusive in the lack of talking.

There wasn’t much to do, so he finished quickly. When he turned around, Gary stood two feet from him, eyes red.

Gary collapsed into Mark, arms wrapped tightly around his body and face buried into his neck. There was a second of utter silence, then he drew in a sharp breath and started sobbing.

The guttural wails sounded more like they were being dragged from an animal than a human. Gary clutched to him, keening, shuddering with each raspy gasp. Tears soaked his neck and collar.

He stroked Gary’s back with one hand and his hair with the other. As hard as Gary shook and clutched, Mark responded with gentle rubs and what he hoped were soothing whispers, telling him it’ll be okay and that it was all right. Holding him while he cried was all he could do and it wasn’t much, but he hoped that it was what he needed and that it could be enough.


	16. All the Birds Are Singing Now

Lying in bed fully clothed, beneath the blankets, while Gary held Mark’s hand to his mouth seemed to bring him comfort. Mark had nothing to compare with, but Gary rarely touched other people, at least not that Mark saw. Yet he seemed to derive comfort from touching him. Even after Gary had stopped sobbing he hadn’t let him go, until Mark asked if he wanted to lie down.

“She said she wished I were dead,” he whispered, lips brushing against his knuckles.

“Oh. Gaz, I’m so sorry.” He traced Gary’s face with his free hand. “I can’t believe she said that, she shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t think she would.” He furrowed his brows, and held Mark’s hand tighter. “I thought she’d cry, maybe lash out a bit, but not that. It was so fast, you know? Couldn’t’ve been more than two minutes. I wanted more time, I thought we’d be able to really sit and talk, even if she was upset. That I could explain. The one thing I didn’t plan for was . . . that.”

Mark traced Gary’s face again. There wasn’t anything he could possibly say to make that better. To be told, by someone you love, that they wished you were dead wasn’t anything Mark could identify with. If any of his family members had said that to him, he’d have been crushed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Ian said that she’d come around, but I dunno. Even if she does how can I trust that she really has? I shouldn’t have to worry if it’s all an act, you know? But I will. Guess it’s taken me whole life to get used to it myself and it’s selfish of me to expect her to get it in an instance, I dunno. I just don’t think I should have to wait for her to come around at all, and I hate that I can’t . . . just push it all aside and say it doesn’t matter, that I don’t give a shit ‘cause I’m right and she’s wrong. I know that, but I can’t. I can’t change how she thinks but that’s what I want. I don’t want to deal with her one day being okay with it and just sort of tolerating it but always thinking in the back of her head when I’m not there that I’m not good, that I’m just not . . . right.”

He pressed his lips to Mark’s hand again, then squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming out shaky. Mark wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer. Though he wasn’t crying anymore, he still pushed his forehead against his collarbone and sunk into his embrace. 

Mark rubbed a circle into his back before he pressed a kiss to Gary’s forehead. He traced his hairline with his fingers and wiped away tears from his cheek. “Do you regret it?”

Gary shook his head. “No. It’s important, this.”

Mark kissed his forehead again. “Good.”

Gary held his hand and brushed his fringe from his eyes. He turned to his other side, pulling Mark’s arm around his abdomen. “Will you just hold me?”

Mark held tighter, pushing his chest against Gary’s back. “Of course.”

* * *

Though Mark’s phone alarm woke him up, Gary kept his eyes closed. Mark got out of bed, and he could hear him shut the bathroom door and start up the shower. The sounds of the water lulling over the porcelain like waves lapping gently at the shore relaxed him. He hadn’t heard the sounds of another in his home for so long that it was still a foreign concept, yet comforting.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing he could recall was Mark’s arm wrapped tightly around him, kissing the back of his neck softly every few minutes. Whether Mark stayed in bed after he’d fallen asleep was beyond him, but what mattered was that he’d stayed until he had.

He’d tried to stop himself from breaking down in front of Mark, even though he’d asked him to spend the night. All he wanted was to spend his day doing something positive, with someone who cared about him no matter what. He hadn’t wanted to sob in front of him. It wasn’t something he liked to do. Even when he was little, whenever he cried he always excused himself and locked his bedroom door. If his father ever caught him crying, he always teased him; sometimes jokingly, as if making light of it would somehow lighten his mood. After spending most of the night after the dinner crying to himself, and the following morning brooding, he’d thought he’d had it out of his system by the time Mark showed up. All it took was one commercial showing a family eating at a table to prove he wasn’t.

Mark had been there for him in a way nobody else ever had. It sounded like a hyperbole, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his; Gary didn’t reach out to others often, if ever. Even with Brian, he’d always excused himself when he needed to cry. In order for someone to be there for him, he had to let them, and he never had. With Mark, it was different. Why it was different, or how, he didn’t know, but it was. More importantly, when Gary opened up, Mark accepted it.

Truth was, he’d been a terrible boyfriend to everyone he’d ever been with. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his that he’d kept them all at arms’ length. It wasn’t as if Brian hadn’t tried to be there for him, or Allison. There had always been something missing in all his relationships, even the one he’d had with a man, and it was all him. He’d been the one backing away and hiding. He’d always been the one closed off and guarding himself. It was about time he’d stopped doing it, and coming out was a big part of that. Why it took Mark to do it, why he was different than the others, he didn’t know, but for that he was grateful.

He brewed tea and scrambled some eggs. By the time Mark was out of the shower, the tea was hot and the eggs were finished, so he poured him a cup and made him a plate of scrambled eggs and jam on toast.

He sat across from Mark, who smiled at him and sipped his tea. “Did you sleep well?” Mark asked.

Gary nodded. “Yeah. What about you, honeybee?”

Mark furrowed his brows. “I did, but I had weird dreams.”

“Me too. What’d you dream about?”

“I dreamt about that actress. You know, er, she died in that place crash yesterday. I was arguing with her about somethin’, I can’t remember. I stormed off and rang up the new waitress we just hired. It really didn’t make much sense. What about you?”

“I dreamt I got turned into a duck.”

Mark’s laugh brought a smile to his face. As terrible as coming out had been, being able to chuckle over breakfast after being held all night and not deal with the secrecy and shame made it all worth it.

He kissed Mark goodbye at the garage door. “Mark,” he said, stopping him from leaving. Mark waited, hand on the doorknob. He wanted to thank him for everything, but he couldn‘t find the words. How could he ever properly explain what it meant to him? How important it was? After everything, he deserved something in return; something more than tea and scrambled eggs.

He deflated.

“Are you gonna come over for lunch?”

* * *

There was something both domestic and illicit about being fucked into the sofa while the TV played in the background.

What had started out as a light lunch rapidly turned into Mark sliding to his knees in front of the sofa to suck and stroke Gary, hand working at his own erection through unzipped trousers. When Gary started moaning, Mark pushed away, cock plopping from his mouth to say; “I’ll be right back,” and hurried to the stairs, leaving Gary alone.

He’d taken off his shoes and whipped off his trousers in record speed, and when Mark returned with the nearly-empty tube of lube, Gary bit his lip in anticipation. Mark had wasted no time shoving Gary against the cushions, slicking his cock and Gary’s bum with the rest of the lube, and thrusting hard inside him.

Mark’s trousers were pushed just under his bum, so Gary grabbed him and forced him deeper. With every push in, the channel on the telly changed. It took eight shouts from Mark and three swears from Gary for him to figure out the remote was underneath him. He lifted his bum, forcing Mark even deeper, and reached underneath himself to grab the remote and toss it to the floor.

Mark pushed Gary’s shirt up and lowered his face to his nipple, biting and sucking, and Gary dug his heels into the small of Mark’s back. “Harder, fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Mark pounded into him, tongue laving Gary’s chest. His uniform rubbed against Gary’s erection, the fabric rough and if he weren’t so goddamned close, it would’ve been uncomfortable. He let go of Mark’s bum to slid his hand up his back and scratch down.

Mark threw his head back and arched, cock slamming in at a different angle, and Mark cried out, eyes squeezed shut, emptying his hot seed inside, jerking his hips forward quickly while he swore and--

Gary came, shouting and digging his nails into his skin. Mark collapsed on his chest, fast, sharp breath against his neck. Neither of them had lasted very long, though it was about time they’d done it on the sofa, considering that they hadn’t been able to last week. Besides, they couldn’t really take their time, since Mark was only on a break.

When Mark pulled out of him, Gary laughed and pointed at his uniform. “Made a mess of your shirt, didn’t I?” Semen smeared across the fabric, white and thick.

“Good thing I’ve got time to clean up, then. You’re a right mess yourself too, Gaz.”

Mark did up his trousers and left with a smile on his face. Gary stood too, lamenting the fact that sex couldn’t be a cleaner activity. The telly was on the Weather Channel, reporting about an unprecedented tornado in someplace called Regina that had killed fifteen people, and the remote’s back had broken, batteries lying about a foot from it. He fixed the remote quickly and changed the channel before joining Mark in the bathroom.

Mark scrubbed his shirt with a wet cloth and the skin underneath. Gary took off his shirt (the only thing he still wore) and tossed it into the hamper. “Think I’ll just take a shower instead.” Unlike Mark, he had it dripping down the back of his leg from his hole. 

The cloth he used to clean himself joined Gary’s clothes in the hamper. “Good plan.” His phone alarm rang; how it had managed to stay in Mark’s pocket with how intense they’d been was a mystery, but he had to fish it out to turn it off. He applied some of Gary’s cologne that he kept behind the mirror and tucked his shirt into his trousers. “I look okay?”

Gary looked him over. “You look fine.”

Mark gave him a quick peck before he went to the door.

“Wait, Mark.” Mark turned to face him, eyebrows raised. “Thank you, for last night.”

Mark’s face softened. One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re welcome.”

He shut the door as he left and Gary stepped into the shower. He turned on the hot water and smiled. Everything was going to be all right.

* * *

August went by in a blur for Mark. Work was work, and nothing he really looked forward to, though Jeannie’s attitude definitely improved once Neva was on the afternoon shift. Gary stopped coming in Wednesdays and Mondays altogether and maybe that had an effect, though if she knew he spent his Mondays with Mark, she might not have been as pleasant. It wasn’t a secret she didn’t like him. Still, she was much friendlier and everything ran smoother when she wasn’t in a terrible mood. Her and Sandy seemed to have made up and talked as much as they ever did, and neither said anything bad about each other when the other was gone, of which Mark was grateful. The less drama there was at work, the better. It was why he refrained from mentioning Gary as much as possible.

Her passive aggressive remarks hadn’t come to an end, though. As much as she was polite and a good manager, she couldn’t stop referencing Gary in impolite ways whenever he came in to eat Fridays. It was never anything over the top, of course; the kind of comments people made to get their frustrations out but if anyone were to ever reply it would make them look overly sensitive. So he always kept his mouth shut and head bowed, scrolling through his texts and replying. He didn’t have to put up with it too often, as he usually took his lunches with Gary, anyway.

Granted there were more than a few times that lunch ended up with one of them bent over the table with the other ramming into him from behind, but their relationship was relatively new so of course they had sex often. Though he hadn’t had sex in months, Gary hadn’t for years so now that they were sexually active, they were doing it as much as they could. Singing together had led to them tearing off their clothes on multiple occasions--in one instance, they hadn’t even left the studio, Mark simply rode him on the sofa with only their trousers taken off, and when Gary reminded him that it was still recording, they’d only shouted louder. Morning sex was a wonderful way to start the day, whether he was biting into his pillow with Gary on his knees behind him, or they were spooning, building slowly to a climax. Though it was usually beyond amazing, it was sometimes embarrassing--there were two times where Gary had lasted under a minute and had to blushingly finish him off. Of course, Mark wasn’t immune against embarrassments either--once, whether it was the way Gary licked his tattoo or the exact crook of his finger inside of him, he didn’t know, but fifteen seconds later Gary was laughing with Mark’s cum splashed up the side of his face. Despite the few minor mishaps, though, their sex life was great.

It wasn’t the sex that Mark caught himself thinking about while getting refills or smiling into his pillow late at night, though. It was spending the night with Gary at least three times a week or bathing together, his back resting against Gary’s wet chest; cuddling on the sofa while watching telly and having a picnic in the backyard in the middle of the night, lying on the blanket and admiring the stars. They sang together often, whether in the studio or when Gary played the piano in the living room, and had even moved from the Disney songbooks to covers of their favourite songs, taking turns playing on the keyboard. Gary had even convinced Mark to sing tracks from his albums by promising he’d sing some from his as well. Rob even talked to Gary a few times over Mark’s mobile and said that he was glad to have been proven wrong and that they’d have to all hang out again sometime.

Gary’s bed was far more comfortable than his own. Mark’s was old and stiff no matter how many times he flipped it. It was also much quieter here than in his flat. He could sleep a full night without waking every hour because someone was shouting or watching their telly so loud he could hear the dialogue through the walls. None of that happened here. He spent the night often enough that Gary had cleared a drawer for him and a section of his walk-in closet, so he didn’t even have to worry about not having clothes. If he worked, all he needed to do was either bring his extra uniform or wash the one he wore before morning. Gary’s washer didn’t shake so hard Mark worried it would explode and his dryer thoroughly dried everything. He didn’t have to run the machine twice. The bathroom was spacious and the water always ran clear and smoothly, too.

The toilet flushing woke him, but since he’d slept throughout the whole night it didn’t bother him, waking early. He didn’t mind waking to see Gary’s bare bum while he stood at the sink to wash his hands, either. 

“I didn’t wake you did I?” Gary asked when he got back into bed.

Mark turned on his side to face him. “You did but I don’t mind. I slept like a rock, really. S’not like I work today, anyway.”

Gary traced his shoulder with the tip of his finger. “It’s nice, this is. Sleeping together.” He spoke slowly; carefully, even, though it was probably just because he was tired.

Mark nodded. It really was, even without sex. He preferred it to sleeping alone. They even slept naked and he didn’t feel the need to cover how small he was when he walked around the room nude, either. “It is.”

Gary smiled. “You know what today is?”

“Monday.”

“It’s the second of September. First day of school.” The tips of his fingers dragged down Mark’s arm. “All those kids, headin’ off to class for the first time in months. With their rucksacks and books and all.”

“Yeah?”

Gary scooted closer, hand slipping across his shoulder and squeezing. “Gets me thinking, it does. And, and I think I . . . I think I want kids.” He let out a huff of air and smile. “Actually, I do. I want kids someday, I really do.”

“Really?” Maybe with anyone else he would’ve hated how eager he sounded, but it was Gary and he didn’t have to hide that. He’d already told Gary how much having children meant to him and how it had hurt knowing his ex had lied to him about it. 

Gary pulled his hand away and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sayin’ right away or anything. But y’know Elton does. I do like kids, I just never . . . really let myself think about it, ‘cause I knew that I was . . . but that’s not an issue anymore, is it? And I’ve thought about it, and I’m not sayin’ that, you know, I’m not s-sayin’ that, well, that you and _me_ are gonna--you know, that it’ll be _us_ that--” He blinked rapidly, cheeks pink and mouth working soundlessly for a second. He pinched his lips together, then cupped the side of Mark’s face. “Actually that _is_ what I’m saying. Mark, I want kids with you someday.”

He tried not to cry. He tried not to throw his arms around Gary, sniffling into his bare shoulder. He failed, of course, but Gary laughed and wrapped his arms around him in return. Obviously they weren’t going to go out and adopt someone right away, but the fact it would happen, one day, with Gary? All his life he’d wanted children, and he’d never been able to have one. There wouldn’t ever be a woman who’d have his kid and bugger off. Going bankrupt had been a major setback in that, but when he’d finally made it to a place he’d felt comfortable, being left over children was even worse. It was all he wanted, a dream he’d clutched to for decades and, as he grew older, one that had twisted into his chest more painfully with each passing year.

Everything kept falling into place, as if he’d been searching for the right parameters for every instance in life and now he’d finally grabbed it. Nothing had ever measured up to this moment, being held by the man he loved, crying and laughing and hugging, knowing that one day, they would raise children together. He’d been searching for Gary, for this, his entire life, and now he'd found it. Maybe they were both former pop stars, maybe he was just a waiter and Gary was just someone who wrote music reviews under a pseudonym, but none of that mattered anymore. What mattered was this, smiling into bare skin under the blankets, and the prospect of a family one day.

“I thought you’d think I was bringing it up too soon.”

Mark leaned out of the embrace to hold Gary’s face in his hands, eyes blurry with tears and smiling. “No, no it’s perfect,” he managed through a chuckle and kissed him, over and over. His kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his face. Gary laughed and kissed him back, and Mark couldn’t stop smiling and crying and laughing. He pushed one hard, last kiss to his mouth. “I love you.”

It slipped out, their mouths pressed together. He pulled away, chest tightening. He wanted to apologise, but he didn’t want Gary to think he didn’t mean it; he absolutely meant it. Still, he’d said it without thinking; without gauging his reaction first.

Gary brought him in for another kiss; a softer one. “I love you, Mark,” he murmured against his mouth, so closely he could feel his tongue move against his bottom lip. “I’m in love with you.”

Mark caressed his mouth, soft lips moving and brushing together. He closed his eyes and invited Gary’s tongue into his mouth; coaxed it into play. Gary slid on top of Mark and sidled in between his legs, kissing him deeper. Mark bent his knees up and slid his hand down Gary’s back.

When Gary leaned away, head a mere foot above him, warm sunlight brightening up his face and eyes, Mark smiled. “This is all I ever wanted, Gaz.”

“I know, honeybee.” He brushed his thumb across Mark’s cheek, and kissed him again.

* * *

Post-coital pillow talk turned into growling stomachs and complaints of hunger, so when Gary said; “You know, I’ve skipped a few Mondays,” they both dressed and headed out. Mark hadn’t eaten at the diner, except for during his break, though that didn’t count as he hadn’t had anything from the menu.

“Don’t think we’ve had a date here before. An oversight, that. We should’ve a long time ago.” Gary slid his hand into Mark’s as they walked across the car park. 

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause this is where we met. Right over there, you were smokin’ and I’d just spent . . . ages tryin’ to think of a reason to talk to you. You were so familiar and . . . beautiful.”

“Oh, Gaz.” He knocked their shoulders together.

“I mean it.”

“I’d been staring at you too, y’know. Fuckin’ gorgeous, you are.”

“Now, now, flattery will get you nowhere Mark, and my head’s easily inflated, don’t want it carryin’ me off do you?”

“Long as you take me with you, I won’t mind you bein’ carried off.”

All those months ago, Gary had been too shy to approach him, but Mark couldn’t complain because he had been as well. Gary had always been so closed off when talking to him and spoke precisely, as if every word was pre-planned, and Mark had been analysing every touch, trying to make sure he wasn’t pushing past any boundaries. They’d spent weeks talking in cars and tip-toeing around asking each other to hang out occasionally, and now? Now Gary didn’t shy from holding his hand in public and taking him on a date to a place he frequented.

Gary opened the door for Mark. Steve stood behind the podium and laughed as a greeting. “Whoa, Mark my man! You are looking gay as _balls.”_ He gave him an enthusiastic clap on the back. “You’re looking pretty good too, Gary. So table for two hmm? Usual spot and shit?”

Gary blinked a few times but smiled. “Yeah, of course.”

Steve led him to the table Gary normally sat and Mark sat across from him. “Sandy will be right with you.”

Mark waited until he was out of earshot to lean across the table. “I didn’t know his name until last month. I felt awful.”

“What, Steve’s?” Mark nodded. “Hmm. Bit weird though, wasn’t it? He’s always so formal. Always usin’ big fancy words too.”

“What, really?”

Gary nodded. “Yeah. Why? Is he usually like that?”

Mark laughed. “Formal is the last thing he is.”

“Really?” Gary furrowed his brows and hummed. “‘Cause you know his mum and dad drive ‘round in Bentleys and he has the whole west wing to himself.”

“What, you’re serious?”

“Yeah, I mean, not that we’ve ever really talked about it, but he’s mentioned it a few times.”

Well, that had been certainly unexpected. “Huh.”

Gary leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his smile stretching into a grin. He’d grown his facial hair out and even if he got beard burn every time they snogged, it looked great on him so Mark didn’t mind. “Since we’re gonna be dads someday, I was thinkin’ we could get a bit of a start on names. Nothing permanent of course, but there’s this game me and Ian used to play when we had long drives as kids. I say a name, and whatever the last letter of that name is, you have to give me a name that starts with the letter. And if we hear any good ones, we’ll write ‘em down for whenever we . . . you know, start lookin’ into it.”

Mark grinned. If he was discussing names, that meant he was serious about this; he wasn’t just talking about getting kids to please him. “All right, sounds good.”

“I go first. Daniel.”

“Er, Levi.”

“Jesus, I get the I. Erm, Ingrid.”

“Derek.”

Gary shifted and twisted his mouth. “Kevin.”

“Neva.” Mark winced as if her name were a swear word, though there was no shame in saying it at all.

Gary didn’t flinch. “Anne, ends with E.”

“Elwood.” Gary smiled and Mark couldn’t help but grin, either. “I actually really like that one.”

“Me too. Daisy. I like that one.”

“Um . . . I hate Y, you’re a git for that one Gaz.” He pointed at him and glared, but took Gary’s eyebrow raise as a challenge. “Yvaine, like in er . . . _Stardust.”_

“Oh, I loved that film. Actually I wrote a--”

Sandy appeared out of thin air, swatting Gary’s shoulder with her notepad. “You’ve missed so many Mondays, Gary. We were all very worried.”

Gary’s foot curled around the back of Mark’s, stroking his Achilles tendon. “I’ve been busy. How are you?”

“Been great. And Mark too! I always feel weird coming in on my day off. Just doesn’t seem right. Can I start you off with some drinks?”

* * *

For years, the diner had been a place for him to relax; the only place he’d continually visited. Though it had only really been his insistence on sticking to a routine that did nothing for him, it really had brought comfort to him, even if shallowly. He couldn’t have spent that much time here without it meaning something to him. More importantly, it was where they’d met. As silly as it may have been, this place held a large chunk of significance for him, or it had anyway, and if he wanted to share his life with Mark, eating here was a part of that.

While Sandy left to get their drinks, they looked over the menu and continued their game. Gary had more experience playing it though, so when Mark managed to force a Z on him and he’d said Zachary, Mark had run out of Y names and gave up. Though most of the names had either been mediocre or completely stupid, he had to admit they’d come up with a few nice ones.

“Can’t believe I didn’t know any of that about Steve, and I work with him,” Mark murmured when Steve walked by to lead another customer to their table.

“I always thought he was a bit of a snob, to be honest.”

They both remained silent while he told the people who he seated that their server would be right with them, in an overly-polite and smooth accent. Mark snorted and laughed into his fist. It was funnier watching Mark’s reaction than hearing Steve talk, considering Gary was far more used to that.

Steve had always come across as pretentious and, even though he’d given them that colourful greeting, he was still having difficulty seeing Steve differently than how he always had. “Bit weird to think he’s not like that all the time, really. Makes you wonder what’s real and what isn’t, yeah?”

Mark shrugged. “Well everyone does it. Different personalities around different people, I think.”

“I guess I’d know about that.”

Mark comfortingly held Gary’s hand on the table. “Well not anymore.”

Jeannie started approaching the table from behind Mark. Gary groaned, letting go of his hand. Mark had told him enough about how she’d mentioned asking him out was a terrible idea the first time he’d tried and after she refused to let Mark be his server, they’d both stopped pretending that she hadn’t taken her dislike of Gary out on Mark. After a few glasses of wine two weeks ago, Mark ended up complaining about how she’d made remarks about how he shouldn’t have gone to London with Gary that one time as well. What was it going to be this time?

“It’s nice to see you Mark,” she greeted, coming up behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder. As genuine as she sounded, Gary didn’t trust it. Even if she’d never once sounded legitimately pleasant to him, the fact she did around Mark meant nothing. “I actually needed to discuss something with you. Since you’re here, you mind if we do it now?”

Mark’s face fell and he caught Gary’s eyes with his own. Gary pursed his lips and stared at the table. He drummed his fingers against it.

“Yeah I’ll, er. Be right with you in a second.”

She smiled at him, white teeth bared. “I’ll see you in the break room then.”

Gary glared at her as she walked away, waist-length braid twitching with each step. He tapped the table even quicker. When she disappeared behind the corner and down a hall, he huffed angrily. “What’s this gonna be then? We’re not allowed to eat together?”

Mark sighed and rubbed his face. “I dunno Gaz. Just, uh . . . if Sandy comes, order the salad for me.” He left the booth and went in the direction Jeannie had gone.

Gary pursed his lips and watched him leave until Sandy started walking towards the booth, their drinks in hand. He hastily smiled in her direction and hoped that it looked genuine enough. He should tell Mark to stand up for himself, but that would be hypocritical; in the same situation, Gary wouldn’t have been able to do much, either. It was only recently that he’d managed to stop hiding his sexuality. 

“Oh, where’d Mark go?” She put Gary’s drink in front of him and Mark’s where he would’ve been sitting.

“Jeannie needed to talk to him about something.” He folded his arms but only to stop himself from tapping a hole into the wood. “He wanted the salad. I’ll just have my usual.”

Sandy nodded and wrote that on her notepad. “All right. And I’ll be back shortly with your orders.” Gary smiled at her and she shifted her weight onto her other foot. He waited for her to leave, but instead she stood there, biting down on her lip. “Say, Gary,” she said, carefully and slowly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve come in here for years and, uh, well I would love to get to know you better.” She shifted her weight onto her other foot and cleared her throat. She lowered her head to stare at the ground, before staring back at him, teeth biting at her bottom lip. “I was wondering, um, would you like to go on a date sometime?”

For the first time, Gary noticed her blue eyes; how light they were and how they shone. Her eyeshadow was a soft cinnamon, feathered around her lids and making the colour pop. She always put so much effort into her makeup. She was pretty, with brunette hair pulled into a casual bun and her nails always manicured. They never talked too deeply about her, but enough for him to know she was a good listener and liked various genres of music. She once told him she used to write music reviews; not little blurbs, but pages filled with album analyses.

If she’d asked more than a month ago, he might’ve said yes based on the fact she was a woman and she wasn’t too far from his list. He would’ve eventually broken her heart.

“Um, Sandy . . . .” Her face fell but she quickly smiled, though it looked stretched and awkward. “I’m flattered, I am, but I’m gay.” 

She was the third person he’d told, and the first since his family. Though he still struggled saying the word, it didn’t cause anxiety to even speak it anymore.

“Oh.” This time when she smiled, it reached her eyes and she shook her head with a laugh. She ducked her head and her chuckles faded. She turned and focused on Mark’s glass. _“Oh,”_ she repeatedly heavily, and the smile disappeared. “So you and Mark are . . . ?”

He nodded and smiled at the empty space in front of him. “Yeah. We’re together.” A few moments ago, he‘d sat across from him, hands clasped together and wide smile lighting up the diner. Soon enough, he’d be across from him again, tossing his fringe from his grey eyes. “I’m in love with him.”

“Well you’re both very lucky.” She cleared he throat and moved to walk away. “I’ll go put in your orders. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Sandy,” he said before she could leave entirely. She froze and looked at him. “I really am flattered.”

“Thank you.”

She barely looked at him as she walked away.

* * *

Mark stood in the break room, fiddling with the coffee filters someone had left on the counter. It was his day off and he still had to deal with this? Even if he had refused to see her on the grounds he wasn’t working, she would’ve just brought it up with him on Wednesday anyway. What was he supposed to do? Completely avoid being seen with Gary at all? Hell, she’d even made a remark about his vacation trending on Twitter last month. At this point, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her from finding any excuse to insinuate he shouldn’t be around Gary at all. Mark hated jumping to conclusions but he’d started to wonder if it had nothing to do with Gary and more to do with his sexuality. After all, even if she’d been dismissive of Gary long before she’d hired him, it wasn’t until he’d said he wanted to ask him out that she began really taking it further.

The door opened so he turned to face it. It was Sandy. “Oh, thought you were Jeannie. She had to take a call, though.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“Well, she barely pulled me in here, really. We could hear the phone ringing in her office, so she--”

“I meant about Gary.” 

Mark furrowed his brows. “What?” 

She huffed and shook her head. “You said he was straight. You told me he said no. But you’re dating him, he told me you were. Just now.” 

“Sandy, it’s not what--“ 

“And I asked you again, and you said no, _again,_ even though everyone on Twitter said--what, did you think I’m that immature?” Her voice wobbled and eyes shimmered wetly. “I thought we were friends, and you lied to me. You think--you really think I’d care more about that than . . . ? I’m a big girl, Mark. It’s nice to know what you think of me.”

He shook his head. “Sandy, listen, I didn’t--”

The door opened and Jeannie stepped in. “Sorry about that, it was just John.” She eyed Sandy. “What’re you doing in here?”

Sandy shook her head. “Nothing,” she murmured and slipped out of the break room quietly.

Mark rubbed his face. On top of Jeannie getting ready to lecture him about what he did in his spare time, he’d inadvertently hurt Sandy’s feelings. Of course she wouldn’t think less of him for dating Gary. They were adults, not children in primary school. He would have to get a hold of her soon and explain. He’d never lied to her; Gary really had said no, and they weren’t dating when they went on that vacation. He simply hadn’t made an announcement once they did get together because there wasn’t any reason to and he didn’t want to hear Jeannie’s lecture. Besides, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t trended on Twitter several times and Robbie had talked about the two of them several times in multiple interviews. There were magazines in the shops with them on the cover, as if they were somehow still relevant, and people were buying their songs on iTunes. There was nothing to hide.

“I was gonna wait ‘til Wednesday to talk to you, but since you came in I just figured I’d do it now. I’m havin’ a problem,” she said, rolling her eyes and pressing her fingers to her temple, “with the mobiles.”

Mark blinked. “What?”

“It’s not you. Really, it’s just Steve and Neva. Apparently, I dunno, she wanted him to pay her rent and something about car insurance, I’m not sure, but he said he was tired of being used for his money and they broke up; I dunno. Some sort of drama. But for the past week they’ve been doin’ nothing but texting and ringing each other, arguing, and I can’t have that on the floor. So--just for now, I might lift it later--I’m putting a ban on your mobiles. Don’t use ‘em, if I see them, I’m gonna take them. If I have to take it more than once, I’m gonna give you three days without pay. So either leave it in your car or in the break room.”

Mark waited for the rest of the lecture.“So this is just about the phones?”

“Yeah. So you can go back to your lunch now.”

He’d been worried over nothing. “Oh, good. Thanks for telling me. I’ll see you Wednesday, then.”

He walked by her and grabbed the doorknob. 

“Mark.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. Of course. She couldn’t just let it lie, could she? Before he turned around to face her, he forced a nonchalant smile on his face. There was no way it looked anywhere near genuine. “Yeah?”

She pinched her lips together and stared at him. After a second of quiet, she shook her head. “Have a nice lunch, Mark,” she murmured and went to the coffee machine, rubbing her eyebrow.

He left the break room, a weight lifting from his shoulders and chest. Maybe he’d avoided that awkward conversation by the skin of his teeth, and he’d probably have to hear it on Wednesday anyway, but for now, he was going to take advantage of it. He had more urgent matters to attend to than worrying about Jeannie. He didn’t want Sandy to think he had kept the truth from her intentionally. He tried to catch Sandy’s attention but he couldn’t see her anywhere. Perhaps she was avoiding him. He’d have to talk to her on Friday when he saw her next and explain everything, then.

Gary waited in the booth with his fingers drumming against the table, his chin in his free palm, staring out the window. Mark slid into his seat across from him, smiling. “Sorry about that. There was just some problem with the mobiles.”

Gary tilted his head, eyebrows lowered and mouth pinched together. “You didn’t tell anyone we were dating.” He looked downward and pulled his hand from the table to his lap. “Sandy asked me out. I told her we were dating. She had no idea.”

He winced. For obvious reasons he hadn’t encouraged her to ask Gary out for a month, but that didn’t mean the others had stopped. Apparently she’d finally gathered up the courage. “Look, I don’t think my personal life is anyone’s business. I never lied or anything, I just didn’t make a public announcement.” Gary frowned deeply, focusing instead on the silverware. “Oh, I’m so awful. After everything you went through coming out, I didn’t even . . . I’m sorry.”

“It’s Jeannie, isn’t it? That’s why you didn’t say anything.” Gary huffed and shook his head. “It’s gettin’ to the point where it’s becoming harassment, this.”

Mark crossed his legs and pursed his lips. What Gary said was true, but for the most part, Jeannie was a great assistant manager and she’d been the one to give him the job. Even though she didn’t like Gary, when he wasn’t involved she was nothing but fair. He hated drama and wanted to avoid it at all costs.

Gary cleared his throat. “Obviously you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But um, she knows now, so.”

Mark wished he could say otherwise, but it really wasn’t something he wanted to discuss.

Gary twisted his mouth and licked his bottom lip. “Anyway, since we were . . . talkin’ about kids and all earlier,” it was an obvious change of subject, but Mark was more than glad for it, “and trust me I completely understand if you think this is too soon, but I’ve been thinkin’ about it this past week, thinkin’ about it a lot, and you know, economy isn’t great and I know your flat isn’t either, so I thought maybe that you could move in with me. If you wanted.”

Mark unfolded his legs and leaned forward, hands flat on the table. His heart skipped a beat before double-striking his chest. “Are you serious?”

“Like I said I know it’s soon but it’s closer to your work and it’s paid off, so we’d just need to focus on groceries, utilities--”

“No, no Gaz, I would--I would _love_ to, really. If you’re serious, I’ll gladly move in, I’m just--well, a bit stunned. It’s all just . . . today, out of nowhere, it seems. I want to make sure you mean it.” If he wasn’t ready, he didn’t want to pressure him into doing something he didn’t want to do. His last boyfriend had spent years saying what Mark wanted to hear, only for it to end when he actually decided to pursue it. The last thing he wanted was Gary to do the same.

Gary nodded and reached forward, holding Mark’s hand. “I mean it. Mark I’ve--this past month, it’s been amazing. I’ve just--I’ve never . . . _felt_ this way about anyone, I know how that sounds, Jesus, but I mean it, I do. Mark, I loved you before I knew you, and now that I have you, I just . . . I want this, I want all of it.”

It was soon. It all was moving too quickly, and yet it felt more like a long time coming. All the flirting, the wonderful month they’d spent together, hell even before then; listening to Gary’s CD when it was first released with his eyes closed while Rob teased him, panicking when he’d lost the album two years later and unable to find it in any shops, seemed to be just as important a build towards this as anything that happened after they met. Now Gary held his hand, light eyes gleaming from the rising sun shining through the window, asking him to move in after talking about having children someday.

“I want to move in, yes.” Did he sound as breathless as he felt? His cheeks hurt from grinning so hard. “We can stop by me flat right after this, I can tell my landlord. I’ll even--if we can, I’ll pack everything up and tomorrow we can bring everything to your place--I mean, if possible.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive, Gaz.”

They leaned across the table and kissed. Though it was nothing more than a quick peck, it was the most public thing they’d ever done. Their first public kiss in the diner where they first met; hell, even the same table, sunlight streaming in and setting their faces aglow. Neither of them were hiding anymore, and they had no reason to. From here on out, everything would go perfectly.


	17. No Place on Earth I'd Rather Be

Pulling around the back of the diner and piling boxes that had been thrown beside the dumpster wasn’t the most dignifying first step, but it was the first step nonetheless. He’d worried about Mark’s answer for days because, as positive as he was about wanting this, it was still early in their relationship. After what had happened to Mark a few months ago, and how his last relationship went, taking the leap at all would’ve been difficult months down the road, let alone now. He’d spent the last two weeks weighing options and sitting down to really decide on whether it was something he truly wanted, because after Allison and Brian he wasn’t going to throw himself into anything he wasn‘t absolutely sure of. He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t positive.

He quickly sent Ian a text telling him that Mark would be moving in with him. Though Ian had seemed supportive, more than his mother at any rate, he hadn’t called or texted him since he came out. Then again, Gary hadn’t done anything to contact him either. Since Ian used to have a habit of dropping in unannounced, and he might start up again any time, he needed to be aware before waltzing in and finding out the hard way. Some of his decision to text him was out of fairness to Ian of course, but it was mostly because he wasn’t ashamed anymore and he needed to prove that; not only to his family, but to himself.

Finding Mark’s landlord was the second step. He scowled when Mark said he’d be moving in with his boyfriend and said he had twenty-four hours to be out of here. He never looked Mark in the eye and kept at least five feet away from either of them, lip permanently curled as if appraising a squashed cockroach. He muttered under his breath when they walked away, and despite how quietly he did so, Gary clearly heard the slurs. Mark held his head high and for all the world acted as if he hadn’t caught his behaviour, but Gary clutched his box tighter. He didn’t know if he would ever be able to walk away unfazed like Mark. Seeing something like that directed towards others had been enough to keep him hiding for years, and for as long as he lived, it would infuriate him.

Gary hadn’t ever been inside the flat before, though now that he was he couldn’t help but wonder if that was intentional. While the people inside, talking idly in the halls outside of their doors or sitting on the stairs, seemed pleasant, the building itself wasn’t. Gary could hear conversations through the walls and the entire place smelled of something musty. Mark’s flat was small; the kitchen and the living room were connected, with only a counter to separate them. The living room only had a sofa and a small TV on a stand. In the hallway there were only three doors; one led to a small laundry room with a water heater, one to a bathroom, and the other to his bedroom. 

His sink was empty of dishes and the plates were stacked with the largest on the bottom with the smallest on top, though the saucers had their own place. Pots and pans were similarly organised. Everything in Mark’s cupboards were aligned and organised perfectly, spotless and sparkling. The clothes in his dresser were folded neatly and what he kept in his bedroom closet was obviously ironed. He had an entire area set up for scarves and hats. He had more pairs of shoes than Allison had owned.

Mark kept a tidy house, but the dark stains on the carpet and uneven colouring on the walls couldn’t be helped. The water from the sink faucet sprayed the way a garden hose did when blocking it with his thumb and part of the floor in the hall sunk down when he stepped on it.

When the landlord had only given them twenty-four hours to leave he’d worried that it wasn’t enough time, but Mark didn’t have much in his flat and he was trying to hurry. Being irritated at the way the landlord had scowled at them might have had more to blame for his hurried packing than anything else, though.

“It bothers me too, y’know,” Mark said, cutting Gary’s sandwich into triangles in the early afternoon. They hadn’t taken any breaks and needed to eat something if they planned on finishing tonight.

“What’s that?”

“My landlord, what he said.”

The only other time they weren’t working was when they left to get more boxes after they finished eating. 

It was after nine at night when they finished and had moved everything to the living room, black markers neatly labelling the sides of the boxes. “We can leave the furniture. Don’t care what they do with ‘em,” Mark said when Gary went to move the sofa.

“You’re sure?”

“It’s all shit, Gaz.”

Gary nodded; there was no need to try and say otherwise. The drawers in his dresser were uneven, and one was missing entirely; Mark had complained about his bed dozens of times in the past month, the telly was small and Gary didn’t need another, and Gary wondered if the sofa had come with the flat because he doubted anything Mark owned would look like something dragged out of a dumpster. Besides, it matched the carpet.

“Didn’t take as long as I thought.”

Mark shrugged. “Don’t have much, really. I have some more boxes in a storage, though. Couldn’t get it all in here. Instruments, music, more clothes. Mum and Dad are keeping everything else for me.” Mark scuffed the ground and rubbed his face, though the way he held his palm also blocked Gary from seeing his expression. They’d hardly talked while they’d packed. Gary had chalked it up to his irritation, though maybe Mark had a hand in the silence too.

Gary stood in front of him and pulled Mark’s hand from his face, if only so he could kiss his forehead. “We’ll take everything to my place tomorrow, storage and all. But come on, let’s get home and have something to eat; get some sleep.”

“Goin’ home. I like how it sounds.” Gary kissed his temple again.

He liked how it sounded, too.

* * *

They spent Tuesday going back and forth between the flat and the house. They both brought their cars and loaded the boot and backseat with boxes to take back home until the flat was emptied. In his small flat the boxes had seemed not only larger but daunting in quantity; once they were in Gary’s much larger house, it hardly seemed like much at all. They placed each box in the area it had been labelled.

The radio provided background noise, the spaces between songs filled with commercials and an ongoing story about a school bus crash in the early hours of the morning. By afternoon they had moved the topic to the issue of lack of gun control in America, because (big surprise) there was a deadly shooting spree at a Walmart in Utah. While everyone on this side of the Atlantic was in agreement that they really needed to be stricter, people over there were more concerned about being able to own AK-47s than the lives of innocent people.

It wasn’t difficult to make room for everything Mark had. Gary had more than enough room; so much, in fact, that comparing how full his cabinets and closet and drawers were afterwards, everything had seemed empty beforehand. The only time Gary worried he wouldn’t have enough room was when they started pulling out Mark’s clothes, though luckily Gary had always had a far too large walk-in closet that not even Allison had been able to fill.

He discussed having to change his address for work and though only briefly, he did mention he was a little worried about what Jeannie’s reaction would be when he told her where he moved. Gary tried to stop himself from saying it, but a minute later he blurted that if she said or did anything, Mark should go to John for harassment. After the shit the landlord had said to them and the stress of coming out, he didn’t want Mark having to deal with more homophobic behaviour. Even if she’d been the one to give him the job, there was no excuse for that bullshit. Mark changed the subject after that.

As always, unpacking took longer than packing, though it was true that not only did they have no time limit, but he didn’t have any irritation fuelling him. When they finished it was in the late evening, so they had dinner before going to the storage unit and emptying everything out from there. It was all labelled either clothes or music and there wasn’t much, so it didn’t take very long. However it was too late for them to start unpacking, so they’d simply put the music boxes in the studio and the boxes of clothes in the bedroom.

Mark fell asleep in Gary’s arms just a few minutes after getting into bed with him. Gary held him until he fell asleep, the space beside him on the mattress never to be empty again.

* * *

“Fuck, _fuck,”_ Mark swore, thrusting hard into Gary from behind in a mixture of frustration and pleasure. The alarm on his mobile blared loudly in his pocket; his lunch break was coming to an end, but he couldn’t leave without finishing.

Wednesday had started slow. After spending two days moving Mark into Gary’s house, he’d slept like a rock and woke up tired. He’d hit snooze twice before he dragged himself to the shower. It wasn’t until after he’d eaten breakfast and had a cup of tea that he woke up. Kissing each other goodbye had turned into him being pushed against the doorframe while Gary ignored his mobile ringing and Mark grabbed his bum. Wrenching away so that he wouldn’t be late for work had been difficult enough; spending the surprisingly slow day thinking about Gary’s tongue in his mouth instead of his customers had done nothing to quicken the pace.

So naturally when he wanted time to slow down, that was when it sped up.

Stopping by for lunch had been pre-planned, though Gary hadn’t been in the kitchen so he’d made himself a sandwich and ate it before looking around. He’d found him in the studio, fiddling with his phone while listening to something they’d recorded weeks ago. For as long as Mark lived, he would believe Gary purposely chose to switch to the one time they’d started snogging mid-song and Mark ended up riding him on the sofa, knowing full well it was recording and shouting as loudly as possible.

Gary’s needy gasps of; “Fuck me,” into his mouth was all it took for him to get the lube and return to Gary bent against the panel, trousers to his knees. He’d unzipped his own and started fucking him, getting off to the sounds of them moaning in the recording.

It was the fifth time that Gary had bottomed for him. Normally Mark preferred to be the bottom, but he wasn’t going to get picky when Gary begged for it, and there was no way he was going to go back to work until he came.

“You’re gonna be late,” Gary gasped, backing into Mark’s dick while he shoved forward.

“I was five minutes early; they won’t-- _nnnnnn_ \--care.”

The alarm kept blaring and he kept fucking him, grunting and sweating while he heard Gary on the recording demand he ride his cock; himself call out for God loudly. Gary’s hand slipped on the panel, knocking the lube away. It hit a taped-up box before falling to the ground.

Still, even if being punctual had never been Mark’s strongest trait, he’d been handed the job on pure luck and Jeannie wasn’t anyone he wanted to cross, so he moved faster while he reached around to jerk Gary.

“Christ, faster; fuck me, God, Mark, fuck,” Gary groaned, squeezing tightly around his cock, his hot warmth pulling him and shooting pleasure up his spine.

He finally came, emptying himself inside Gary, grunting with his eyes closed. He wished he could relax for a moment; keep pushing inside of him until he completely softened, but his alarm pierced through the air. He pulled free, one last stream of semen splatting against Gary’s bare bum, before tucking himself into his trousers and doing them quickly. The fabric of his pants against his sensitive head was uncomfortably raw, but it would have to make do. 

Skin still vibrating from his orgasm, he physically turned Gary around so the small of his back was against the panel. He dropped to his knees and sucked Gary’s cock as deep as it would go into his throat. Luckily for him, it was only a few seconds before Gary’s cum shot into his mouth. Though he’d never been especially fond of the taste, he swallowed. 

He left Gary sweating and pink-faced, chest heaving with breath, with the sounds of them begging for release blasting, alone in the studio while he rushed to the loo, shutting off his alarm while he walked. He gargled with mouthwash before he sprinted down the stairs and out the garage door.

Because of the influx of car collisions and yesterday’s bus crash, there were too many police in the streets for him to speed, though he wasn’t far from the diner so it wasn’t too tragic an inconvenience.

He hadn’t had the time to talk to Jeannie about his change of address. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true; he’d had plenty of time, but he’d kept finding something else to do. He had to do it today, though he wasn’t looking forward to it. He hated that something as simple as an address change made him panic, but he wasn’t looking forward to whatever Jeannie would have to say about him moving in with Gary. He supposed he could simply give her the address and not mention Gary, but she wasn’t stupid. Even if she hadn’t been aware that they were dating before, since Sandy hadn’t, as surprising as that was, she would’ve been told by now.

As soon as he parked he leapt from the car and hurried into the diner, eye focused right on the clock. He managed to clock in exactly on time, though only by two seconds. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Just getting back?” Jeannie said from behind him.

He turned and shook his head. “Yeah, but at least I made it on time. Got a bit busy, didn’t think I would.”

“I know where you go durin’ lunch and I think you need to stop.”

Mark blinked. Had she really just said that? “Beg pardon?”

She cleared her throat and met his eyes challengingly. “I know what you’re doing and you need to stop. I can’t have you--”

“What? You’re not serious. You’re not sayin’ this to me for real, are you?”

She lifted her head and stared right into his eyes, lips pursed and shoulders back. “No I am serious, Mark. You need to stop.”

“You can’t say that to me.”

“Look, I know this is hard, but--”

“No, _you_ look,” he snapped, standing up straighter. She blinked at him and reeled her head back. “Nothin’ I do in my personal life has anything to do with my work life, and the fact you keep makin’ those comments and now you’re sayin’ this? Pretty sure that’s not okay. My sex life is _not_ your business.”

Steve stood at the end of the hall, frozen in his spot and staring at them. The break room door was open slightly, just enough for those inside to have heard him; to have heard her. Gary was right; this _was_ harassment and he’d let it go on too long. Perhaps if he’d stood up for himself sooner she wouldn’t have had the audacity to tell him that.

“Wh-what? I thought you were going to Gary’s for lunch.”

Steve jogged towards the break room door and bolted inside quickly, shutting the door loudly. Jeannie didn’t look behind her at the noise, just kept staring. Mark shook his head, mind turning but refusing to click.

“I have been, we’re--” Her face fell suddenly and Mark clamped his mouth shut, cheeks burning a bright red. “I live with him now, you knew didn’t you? Didn’t Sandy tell you? Gary and I are--well, we’re together, we’re dating. She had to have told you.”

“Why on earth would she tell me that? What do you think we talk about?” He went to answer, but he had no idea what that was. She shook her head. “You need to get to work.”

Mark stepped in front of her to stop her from walking away. “No, what were you talking about, telling me I couldn’t do?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She moved to walk around him but he stepped in front of her again. Even if it wasn’t about him dating Gary, it was still wrong of her to comment on his personal life. What he did outside of work had nothing to do with work. She’d pissed him off, he wasn’t about to brush it off because she hadn’t known about one thing. None of that mattered; what still mattered was that she had the nerve to take her dislike of Gary to the point that anyone daring to even associate with him was pulled aside and told to stop. 

“No, it matters and you know it. You have no right whatsoever to tell me what I can and cannot do in my life, if it doesn’t involve work it’s not your business. You told me not to ask him out, you won’t let me serve him--I’m not stupid, it’s about him, and it’s harassment. What is your fuckin’ problem?” While he hadn’t been shouting, he’d certainly raised his voice.

“My _problem,”_ she hissed and though she was only slightly taller, managed to tower over him, “is that Gary hurt someone, someone I knew. They were friends--well, probably more than that now that I think on it. Completely ruined his life, ruined everyone around him. I was lookin’ out for you.”

He opened his mouth to defend Gary or to tell her he didn’t need looking after; he wasn’t sure which, but before he could figure it out, she interrupted.

“You ever talk to me that way again and you’re out of a job, you understand? Now get. Back. To work.” She stormed off.

Mark stood there, hands clenched into fists, and heard something behind him. He turned quickly and the break room door shut with a snap; someone must’ve opened it after Steve went in. Too embarrassed and angry to take his mobile from his pocket and put it in there, he forced a smile and went to work.

* * *

Two missed calls, both from his mother.

He’d missed the first one while kissing Mark goodbye. When he’d checked the phone to see it was her, his heart dropped as had his phone. It hit the kitchen floor and luckily didn’t break. She called again an hour later, and he let it ring.

Instead of calling her back, he cleaned the dishes from breakfast and watched telly. When he grew tied of flipping through all of the channels he paid good money for and yet never had anything decent on that he hadn’t recorded and watched multiple times, he went into the studio, fiddling with his phone. He was more than glad for the distraction when Mark showed up for lunch; he needed to do anything to get his mind off the subject of his mother, and maybe it was manipulative of him to choose the recording of them having sex, but he doubted Mark minded.

Afterwards, he looked over old recordings in the studio until his phone rang a third time. It was his mum, so he ignored it and went into his bedroom to unpack the rest of Mark’s clothes for him. It was mostly winter clothes but they fit in his closet fine. He had no problems reorganising the dresser around to make room for the trousers.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have texted Ian, even though it was necessary to tell him. It was too much of a coincidence for his mum trying to get a hold of him two days after telling Ian Mark was moving in. Did she want to cry to him about how she was disappointed? Was she angry with him for it? Would she rail about how he was intentionally going out of his way to upset her by rubbing it in her face? Guilt trips were one of his mother’s favourite pastimes. She constantly accused everyone around her who didn’t agree with what she thought or did something she didn’t approve of that it was an intended slight against her. What was he supposed to do? Spend the rest of his life refusing to live the way that made him happy? If he answered the phone to hear her cry then he couldn’t feign ignorance of her tears. Once he knew she was upset, for the rest of his life she could use that against him; tell him that he “knew” that he was hurting her and continued to do it because he didn’t respect her.

He got started on dinner as soon as he finished unpacking Mark’s clothing for him. He took his time cooking and didn’t finish until a few minutes to five. He carefully set up the table in the kitchen, scooping pasta on Mark’s plate with extra cheese before putting some on his own. 

The door leading to the garage opened and Mark stepped into the kitchen. “I made dinner,” he said, gesturing at the plate.

Mark half-smiled. “Thanks.”

He ate quietly and slowly, most of the time twirling pasta around his fork. Something had to have happened because he’d been so cheery at lunch, and now he kept his head bowed and eyes downcast. Gary nearly asked what was wrong several times, but chose to be quiet instead. Mark would tell him if he wanted

The phone rang beside his plate and Gary ignored it, opting instead to take a drink of his glass of wine. Mark stared at it before meeting Gary’s eyes. They stared at each other until the mobile stopped ringing, then looked back at the plate.

His dropped his fork and sighed. “It’s my mum. I don’t want to hear what she has to say about us movin’ in together.”

Though Mark averted his eyes, he nodded his head. “Jeannie told me to stop spending any time with you. I lost me temper a bit.”

“She actually said that?”

He nodded again, head bowed and shoulders withdrawn. “She said she had a friend once, someone you hurt.”

“Brian?”

“I think, but I didn’t ask.” He brushed his fringe from his eyes, though it fell back into place and shielded his expression from Gary. “Said she didn’t want me gettin’ hurt either.”

A text stopped him from saying anything.

He picked up his phone and turned it in his hands a few times before turning it on, swallowing a lump that formed in his throat. She wouldn’t let it be until he responded; no matter how angry or snotty she was, it was better to get it over with now.

_i heard mark was moving in he seems nice i hope it works out 4 u_

“How is it?” Mark asked tentatively, his voice as small as drawing in his shoulders made him.

He slid the phone across the table for Mark to grab. He checked the text, then smiled. “So it’s good news, then, really.”

Gary smiled. Maybe Ian was right; perhaps she had come around after all. “Yeah. It is.”

* * *

Even though Gary’s mother had texted him and his mood improved slightly, he’d had a gloomy air for the rest of the night. Mark didn’t comment on it because he wasn’t in the greatest mood either, but at least they’d opened up about each other’s day. Communication hadn’t always been Mark’s greatest strength and from what Gary told him about his previous relationships, it certainly hadn’t been his, either. At least they were learning and growing together.

They didn’t have to talk about Gary’s fears of the text meaning nothing. They’d discussed it before. Truthfully, in the same situation, Mark couldn’t say he wouldn’t feel similarly. Hearing something like that would be hard to get over no matter who had said it. Mark wasn’t even sure if he would be able to get over what Jeannie had said and she wasn’t homophobic, nor related to him. 

They didn’t talk much about Jeannie, either, save for that Gary still thought Mark should go to John about her behaviour. It wasn’t until they were in bed that he considered doing it. Sure, it wasn’t about the two of them dating, but what would she say next? She railed against him going on vacation, she told him not see Gary at all (even under the assumption they were just friends), so how far would she take it from here? What next?

He woke before his alarm sounded, though likely because he’d gone to bed much earlier. Gary was already out of bed, though the space beside him was warm so he couldn’t have been up too long.

He took a hot shower and slipped into the one robe left on the hook on the back of the door leading to the hallway. It was too large for him, though not as much as the one missing. It dwarfed him, bottom trailing on the floor and sleeves longer than his arms. He tied it tightly around his waist and folded the sleeves. He was going to have to get his own robe one of these days.

An episode of Breaking Bad played but Gary wasn’t in the living room. Mark checked the kitchen to see Gary at the cooker. All he could see was his back, and how his oversized robe hung on him. Something about him making tea in their kitchen, finally living together with mostly everything packed, stirred warmth into his stomach.

He put his mobile on the table before he walked up behind him, wrapped his arms around Gary’s middle, and kissed the spot just under his ear as a greeting.

“Morning, honeybee.” He turned the dial, red glowing beneath the tea kettle.

Mark slid his hand down Gary’s stomach, the soft fabric of the robe brushing along his wrist, and traced the knot he’d tied. He pressed his lips against Gary’s jugular. “Good morning.”

Gary tilted his head back and to the side. “You’re up early.”

Mark pulled the knot free, Gary’s robe spreading open. He ran the flat of his palm down his abdomen and grasped his already hardening cock. “So are you.” He bit down on the moistened spot on his throat.

His phone rang.

Sighing, Mark stepped away from Gary and went over to the table. He glanced at the caller ID, scowled, and put it back on the table without even bothering.

Strong hands gripped his waist. “Who was that?” Gary asked, lips moving against Mark’s hair.

“Work. Not comin’ in early. John would just tell me off for extra hours after, anyway.” He turned in Gary’s embrace so he could face him, appreciating his exposed front with a grin. “Besides, I think we were in the middle of somethin’.”

Gary smiled, tugging free the knot on Mark’s robe and nipping his bottom lip with his teeth. “I think we were.”


	18. It Makes No Sense to You and Me

Somehow the sex still felt refreshingly new, as if they hadn’t been together for a little over a month (which actually wasn’t that long at all.) Sometimes though, it felt less like exploring each other’s bodies and losing themselves in having a new partner, and more like taking advantage of the time they had together. It reminded him of when he was in school and only had a few minutes between classes than novelty. It wasn’t the most romantic feeling in the world, but he couldn’t shake it. How much of that was due to Gary having just recently come out was uncertain, and Mark couldn’t blame him for that. Anyone spending most of his life keeping secrets to that extent would have a hard time shaking off the conditioning. Besides, it wasn’t as if Mark had been entirely open with the relationship, either. While lying wasn’t the same thing as omitting, it was still secretive. It didn’t matter now, though. He wasn’t keeping it from his co-workers anymore. They weren’t having an affair, either, so why?

Straddling Gary on the chair in the kitchen, both of them wearing nothing but robes, perked him right up, but work had called two times while he rode Gary, sweaty and gasping. The tightness in his chest, despite the fact he was still glowing, leaked into his stomach. Foreboding loomed over him; the same foreboding he irrationally felt when cuddling with Gary from time to time, as if any moment one of them would have to leave. It was natural, he supposed, to worry about that since they’d both had relationships end badly in the past. Eventually they’d get over it and begin to trust it would last.

He parked five minutes early, but it was better to be early than late, especially considering Jeannie’s attitude towards him recently. Maybe if he talked to her about how Gary had come out and no longer hid his orientation, unlike he had with Brian, she wouldn’t have such a problem with him. Then again, Mark shouldn’t have to have a conversation with her about why her harassment of Gary was an issue; she should keep her personal opinions away from her professional work. She’d been surprised to find out he was gay, so what had Brian told her?

Whatever it was, it was bad enough that years later she was not only treating Gary horribly, but interfering with Mark and his decision to be with Gary in any sense. Every time he came to work, he was legitimately worried that Jeannie would insult, however passive-aggressively, his boyfriend. The last time he’d worked she had even told him to stop seeing Gary altogether, and that was before she knew they were dating. How far would she take this? He wasn’t allowed to live with someone outside of work now?

Gary was right; something had to be done. If talking to Jeannie didn’t take care of the situation, he would have to go to John. He hoped that talking to Jeannie would be enough.

As soon as he stepped into the diner, he saw Steve behind the podium, eyes red and the skin beneath them wet and puffy. Behind him, Carlo and Jeannie talked in hushed tones. Carlo pointed at Mark and Jeannie followed the gesture. The foreboding that had been settling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach burst, cutting its way up his spine and through his throat.

Lips pursed, she stomped over to him. “Break room. Now.” She stalked away, 

His stomach twisted further and he looked to Carlo and Steve, hoping one of them would say something to explain. Carlo turned quickly away and went immediately to his nearest table. Steve stared ahead of himself, coincidentally through Mark. He blinked once, slowly, but there was no other response.

Swallowing hard, Mark followed Jeannie to the break room. He eyed the time clock, but she stood at the door, holding it open and gesturing for him to go through, so he didn’t get a chance to clock in.

Though the door shutting was closer to a click, it sounded like a crash. The break room wasn’t very large, but with Jeannie standing feet from him with a frown on her face, it was nearly cavernous. The coffee brewing was an underground stream drowning incautious animals; the tapping of her shoes against linoleum were creatures stalking their prey in the darkness. 

“I’ve been trying to ring you all morning.”

Three times didn’t constitute all morning in Mark’s opinion, but he kept that to himself. “I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

_My boyfriend._ “Personal things.” It wasn’t her business.

She narrowed her eyes; they were as red and puffy as Steve’s. “I was ringing to inform you that Sandy died.”

The floor dropped out beneath him.

“What?”

Sandy couldn’t possibly be dead. They had just spoken on Monday. She’d misunderstood him; thought he had lied to her. He was supposed to clear everything up with her today. He had to explain; he _had_ to. At the time he’d been telling the truth because he and Gary hadn’t been together, not yet. With all the noise they’d made on Twitter and Rob outing them in interviews and on his blog, he hadn’t thought he needed to make an announcement, least of all at work. He hadn’t had time to explain on Monday. Yes he’d not wanted to be blatant about it around Jeannie because of her obvious dislike of Gary, but Sandy had had nothing to do with that. She couldn’t be dead; he hadn’t had the time to sit her down and tell her what had happened. He hadn’t had time to apologise. She was young and healthy and kind and it couldn’t be real. He had to have heard wrong.

“You heard me. Sandy died; took too many sleeping pills, is what they said.” Jeannie's jaw tightened and her eyes shimmered. She stuck out her hand, palm facing upward. “Give me your name badge and go home; you’re fired.”

“Wait, what?”

“You can’t work here anymore, I’m firing you.”

“But--but you can’t, I didn’t--this isn’t my--”

“Yes it is!” she snapped shrilly, stomping her foot on the linoleum, her chin wobbling. “All of this, this is all your fault! Are you that stupid Mark?! Are you that naïve?! _Really?!_ Open your eyes!”

His eyes burned and his throat tightened. The break room was a furnace and yet freezing at the same time. Was he sweating or clammy? An image of Sandy on a bed, eyes open and lifeless, burned into his retinas. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked hard. “I’m sorry Sandy died but that’s not--just because she fancied Gary doesn’t--”

_“Get out of here,”_ she hissed, baring her teeth and stepping forward, towering above him despite not being that much taller, tears streaking down her face. “She was my friend, Mark. _My friend._ How dare you, _how dare you--”_

“I didn’t do this!”

She reeled back, blinking. 

Bottling up his frustrations was never a good idea, because he always burst at the worst possible moment. He regretted shouting as soon as he did it, but what did he have to lose? Apparently nothing.

“You can’t fire me because of this,” he insisted, much quieter now, though still firmly. His vision swam and a hot tear carved down his cheek. “I didn’t do it, and we don’t even know if it was suicide; it was probably an accident, we all know she has trouble sleeping at night, we all _know_ that. You can’t fire me over this, you can’t. I’ll go to John.”

“I’ve already gone to him. You’ve been late, Mark. Eight times you’ve been two minutes late, and yesterday, you kept your mobile in your pocket the whole time, even though I told you not to.”

“What? Are you--are you jokin’ me? You’re gonna fire me ‘cause of two minutes? There were lines! You’ve seen ‘em, every mornin’! You can’t fire me ‘cause--”

“Eight times being late in less than six months? Do you really want to fight me on this? _Get. Out._ I don’t want to see you near this diner again, you or Gary, understand? Now give me your badge and _leave.”_ She extended her hand, teeth clenched so tightly he could see her muscles tightening in her cheek.

“But I--”

_“Just give it to me!”_ she shrieked, eyes widening to the point he thought they might pop out of her skull.

Hand shaking and vision blurring, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. He didn’t even get a chance to hand it to her; she yanked it out of his grasp. “Now go, you’re fired.” She left the room and slammed the door.

Mark stood there, tears streaming down his face and chest squeezing his lungs and heart. Even if he and Sandy hadn’t been particularly close, he’d always liked working with her. Now she was gone and Jeannie had fired him because what? She thought Sandy has killed herself because he and Gary were dating? Even if she’d fancied Gary that didn’t mean she would commit suicide over him. It was probably an accident. Maybe she’d thought one more sleeping pill wouldn’t hurt when the first two, three hadn’t worked. Even if she had done it on purpose, and even if it were because Gary dated Mark, it wasn’t right to fire him over it. Yet she’d found a way, hadn’t she? Gone to John about him being late (considering Steve was consistently over ten minutes late, two minutes here and there shouldn’t have counted) and keeping his phone with him while working, even though he’d left it in his pocket. He hadn’t used it once. Perhaps if Jeannie hadn’t confronted him about his personal life, which wasn’t anywhere _near_ her business, and spent so much energy taking her dislike of Gary out on him, he wouldn’t have been too angry to put it in the break room, anyway.

He could go to John and accuse her of homophobia, or at the very least, harassment. At this point, he doubted it would even be a lie. But of course since she’d gone to him first, it would look like retaliation. Just like at his previous place of employment; if he fought back, he would look guilty and it would go nowhere. On paper, he was a bad employee for repeated lateness and keeping his mobile on him against regulations; in reality, he was being fired because he was dating Gary and she blamed him for someone else’s death.

He drove home, tears burning and hands gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles ached and were white; still, he couldn’t loosen his grip. His jaw hurt from how hard he was clenching his teeth. When he pulled into the garage and shut off the ignition, he sat in the driver’s seat, staring blankly ahead.

Everything was going by too quickly, too fast for him to hold onto any moment. It wasn’t all bad, moving in with Gary was definitely a highlight and something he was glad happened soon and quickly, but everything else? Time slipped from him quicker, as if he were running a race and the end was near, except he didn’t want to cross the finish line. It was dreading a lecture but knowing the time it would happen; wanting to take advantage of the extra day off, but it zoomed by as if it were nothing.

The last time he’d seen Sandy, he’d made her cry.

He left the car in a daze and walked into the kitchen through the door. He glanced at the small clock on the cooker; he had left fifteen minutes ago.

Had it really only been that long? So much had happened.

Gary poked his head into the kitchen, dark, thick brows furrowed. “Did you forget something?” Mark sucked in a fractured breath, and Gary was in front of him a moment later, holding onto his arms. “Whoa, whoa there, love. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Mark buried his face in Gary’s shoulder, balled his hands up in his shirt, and cried.

* * *

Gary didn’t cry often. It wasn’t that he didn’t need to, it was closer to him refusing to do it. Whenever he did feel like crying, he buried the emotion deep into his stomach and forced his mind on something else, unless it were an appropriate time. His father dying was an appropriate time as was during his funeral, but emotional music? Movies? The death of someone he didn’t know? Absolutely not.

At least that was how he used to be.

Before Mark, he wouldn’t have broken down into sobs after his mother reacted poorly to him coming out. He would’ve never let tears slide silently down his cheeks during an episode of Breaking Bad without hiding his face. Even if he still occasionally clamped down on his emotions and reined in his expression of them (old habits were hard to break) he had, for the most part, stopped holding back. Mark never curled his lip when a particular note and lyric in a song hit him at just the right angle or make a dismissive, joking remark after a sad movie. There was no reason to hide.

Even if he hadn’t ever been close to Sandy, he still liked her; liked her enough to prefer her as his server to anyone else. Enough to show up on Fridays so that he wouldn’t go without seeing her when he’d stopped going Mondays. No matter how little they spoke to each other and how unimportant their topics of brief conversation were, he’d seen her multiple times a week for years. It was impossible not to develop some sort of care and concern for Sandy (or anyone) after that.

They’d started unpacking the last of the boxes at Mark’s insistence. Gary would’ve understood entirely if he’d wanted to shut down and do nothing for awhile. For him, Gary tended to withdraw and disappear and just _stop._ Mark, however, wasn’t hearing any of it; just wanted to go, go, go. So Gary nodded and joined him; whatever he needed to do, he would do it. They’d finished putting away a box filled with sheet music from various bands Mark liked in the closet along with Gary’s before opening a box of CDs. Mark picked one up, stared at it, then sat in one of the wheeled chairs. He twisted it in his hands, frowning.

“Sandy liked Radiohead. We talked about ‘em once.”

The knowledge stuck sharply to his chest. She’d liked a bit of everything, hadn’t she? Once, years ago, a song had played on the radio at the diner; they both commented on it and he had been surprised when she talked about someone she knew covering it, but changing the chords to minor, and how fitting it was. She’d told him she had always liked writing music reviews, but had never had the courage to publish any.

“It’s not your fault, Mark. You know that, right?”

“Feel like shit still, though. It doesn’t make her alive, it bein’ no one’s fault.”

Boxes surrounded them, faded tan and bright, silver tape keeping them together, bottom corners frayed and dirty. There weren’t many, but the one they had open had multiple Radiohead albums visible.

“We don’t have to unpack, y’know.”

“I’d rather do somethin’ than nothin’.” He tossed the CD back into the box. He swallowed, loud and hard, eyes shining. “I just want to get it done.”

“You sure?”

Mark nodded and got out of the chair, brushing his hands on his trousers. He still hadn’t changed out of his uniform. “I don’t want to do nothing, I can’t--I just need to keep moving.” He reached for the box of CDs.

Gary moved forward, placing the box cutters in Mark’s hand. There was no reason why Mark should have to be the one pulling free Radiohead CD after another. “I’ll take these down, why don’t you start on another box?”

Mark nodded and took the box cutters, moving towards another box. The sound of the knife cutting through tape was strangely loud and somehow uncomfortable in the quiet studio.

Gary lifted the one filled with CDs. It was small enough that it being packed didn’t make it too heavy, though enough where he stumbled slightly and had difficulty finding a comfortable grip.

“Mind if I put away more of these?” Mark asked, holding up a Pink Floyd book of sheet music before Gary made it completely out of the open door. 

“Go ahead.” He gestured towards the closet that they’d just been inside. It was where he kept his sheet music as well as his unheard material. He walked into the hallway, leaving Mark to it.

When Gary was younger he’d been the same way; any time something upsetting happened he’d go straight to work. More than a few songs had been penned solely out of pain or depression. Once he’d lost his label, however, the last thing he wanted to do when his world crashed around him was . . . well, anything. He just stopped _doing_ entirely. At first he’d go half way, but give up not too long into his burst of energy. When Brian left him he’d been obsessed with turning the two guest rooms into a studio, though only because he’d trashed Brian’s fake-room and needed to do something to cover the hole in the wall from a chucked wine bottle. He’d convinced himself he’d throw himself back into work once it was done, but all it had accomplished was a studio he never used and he’d spent all his time moping in bed after that. Eventually he stopped doing anything at all, whether he was upset or not. When his dad died he’d done nothing but eat at the diner and lie in bed. He’d hardly cared enough to watch television after that, though the guilt tugging at his stomach insisted that he should’ve been writing music and working his bum off.

Ian, though, went through a phase of severe impulsiveness, which wasn’t particularly like him at all. It wasn’t that he was over-cautious, but the entire family would be getting wood carvings and clay sculptures for the next few years. Even if Ian and Lisa weren’t particularly messy, that house had been spotless for months--at least that was what he’d heard from Mum. Gary hadn’t left his room, let alone his house, so he hadn’t visited Ian to check for himself.

It wasn’t uncommon to want to fill every moment of life with doing something after a death, even if that hadn’t been Gary’s way of coping. As if Sandy dying wasn’t bad enough, to be blamed for it and lose a job? Gary tried discussing legal measures, but Mark turned it down without hesitation. Then again, since she’d lied to John before he even had a chance to defend himself, there likely wasn’t much he could do. Even if they did fight back, it wouldn’t stop Sandy from being dead.

It didn’t take long for Gary to put the CDs away. The cupboard under the stairs had always been set up so that it wouldn’t be difficult to make changes, since Gary bought music so often. Half of the albums he already owned so there wasn’t any reason to put them beside another copy. For a moment he’d considered setting aside a shelf solely for Mark’s music as he had with Allison in case things didn’t last, then he shook aside that thought and put them with his own music with the same categories he would his own, because it wasn’t his music or Mark’s music anymore; it was their music, and from now on they would share it.

It wasn’t the first time he’d shared this space with someone else, though Mark had far more CDs than either Allison or Brian. With as full as the cupboard was now, it wouldn’t be long before they had to take some of the CDs they listened to the least and put them away in the attic, where he’d hidden Mark’s albums for years. He’d always wanted to be with someone who loved music as much as he did. He’d finally found a man who did.

Keeping the extra copies inside, he walked back up the stairs, the box considerably lighter. He walked into the studio. Mark faced away from him, thumbing through a journal.

“Looks like I had a few copies, so I kept yours in here. We can put the extras in the attic.” He put the box down, away from the unpacked ones. “What next?”

Mark turned to him, eyes puffy and red, with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth twisted into a grimace. “What’s this?” He lifted the journal; Gary recognised it as his own, something he hadn’t looked through in at least two years. He’d committed the songs he wrote in it to memory, so there was no reason to pull it out.

“I just wrote music in it is all.”

“Are you jokin’?”

“Why would I be?”

Mark looked back at the notebook, open to a specific page, then back at him. “Did you go through my things?”

“What?”

“Did you--have you gone through my things? Is this a joke or something?” Gary shook his head, reaching forward to take the notebook. Mark jerked it away, face scrunched up. “Did you go through my things?”

“No, why would you--how could I have gone through any of this? Tape’s still on.” Mark shook his head and looked at the boxes, all of them undisturbed. He was breathing so loudly Gary could hear it quicken. This time Mark let him take the journal from his hands. He thumbed through the pages himself, trying to find something that could upset Mark, though he had no idea what to search for. There wasn’t anything wrong from what he could see; just songs he’d written years ago.

“Mark, what’s goin’ on?” Mark didn’t answer; just rubbed his face. “Do you need to lie down?” 

“I don’t need to lie down.” He pointed right at Gary, expression twisted in a way he’d never seen on Mark. “You, you had a list, a list that described me perfectly; Gaz, I won’t be angry, you just--you just need to be honest.”

“I haven’t gone through your stuff at all. What are you going on about?”

He huffed angrily and yanked the journal away from Gary, flipping through pages until he stopped and thrust it back into Gary’s hands. He thwacked his finger on the page. “That, this song. I’m talking about this.”

“What, Rule the World?”

“I wrote this.”

Gary narrowed his eyes. “I wrote this for _Stardust._ I told you about it, Monday.” Mark shook his head and went over to the panel, grabbing the box cutter. He slid the sharp, shining blade out. “You’ve had a stressful day. You said you wrote this? You said you wrote a song about _Stardust_ too, on Monday, remember? Probably something,” Mark stabbed the tape and cut it sloppily, “similar but not the same. Great minds and all.”

Mark tore the box open roughly. He started sifting through the notebooks inside. “I know what I’m talkin’ about Gaz, I know me own fuckin’ songs.”

Gary looked over the lyrics and sighed. “I’m not trying to say you don’t, but I’m saying--”

“It’s not just that one, all of them. All of them, I wrote them.” He pulled out a notebook and lurched towards Gary. He opened it so hard Gary thought it might tear in half. “Look!”

He did as he was told. At the first he didn’t process the words; looked at them the way he looked at the back of him shampoo bottle while bathing. However, two lines in, prickling ran up his spine and the back of his neck. A cold chill spread through his head and down his throat. 

The songs weren’t similar; they were exactly the same. Each word, each note scrawled beside it, every marking around the words and in the spaces; everything. The only difference was the handwriting.

His stomach churned and his ears burned; a deep, hot buzzing replaced every sound. It was impossible. There was no way this could be happening. People couldn’t have the same lyrics and notes running through their minds having never heard them before, no matter how alike they were.

Mark flipped through a few pages, and stuffed his notebook under Gary’s nose again. “This, too.”

Hold Up A Light.

The slap of his notebook sliding from his shaking hands to the floor was more like a bang. He took a step back while Mark flipped to another page and showed him the lyrics to another, and another, until he was pressed flat against the wall, words and notes ringing and echoing and spinning around his head. Song after song, Mark thrust the pages in front of his face and everything-- _everything_ \--was an exact copy. It was impossible, there was no way it could be real. One song was unbelievable enough, but an entire notebook?

“You looked through my things, Gaz, don’t even--”

“How?” he rasped, head pulsing and hands still shaking. He sucked in breath after breath but it wasn’t enough. “Those boxes were still taped up. I didn’t even know you had a storage unit before you took me. There’s no way I could’ve . . . .” He shook his head, melodies nobody but himself had heard pounding in his brain. “Unless you looked at mine; you’ve been in the studio hundreds of times, did you . . . ?”

“Of course I didn’t look! You’re the one with that list! You can’t have a list like that on accident! Just admit it, you fancied me, it’s all right; I’ve loads of fans who’ve--”

“I wrote the list before Take That was popular, Mark! I wouldn’t lie to you, all right? How could I--the list, that’s one thing, it’s--it’s not like you’re the only person--and there’s no way I could’ve copied--but you, you’ve been in here before, you must’ve--”

“I didn’t go through your music!”

“Well I didn’t go through yours!”

It was so silent he could’ve heard a pin drop. Mark stared at him, clutching to his notebook, and Gary stared back, trying like hell to keep his breath even but failing. Why would Mark do this? It wasn’t that he wanted to think he would, but there was no other explanation. Was it a prank? Was there a purpose? Why would he go through his music and rewrite it all to turn around and insist it was him? It didn’t matter; all that mattered was that it hurt. After everything that had happened these past months, coming out to his family, it was all some sort of set up for this?

Mark narrowed his eyes, then let out a sigh. “All right, we had the same dream once, about the elephant. We were riding on it and singing. I bet you remember the song; bet you wrote it down.”

“Well yeah.”

“All right fine. Pick up your notebook and turn to the song.”

“Mark, I don’t know what you’re--”

“Just do it, okay?”

Gary picked up the notebook and Mark turned away from him. Gary flipped through the pages until he found the song; one that had plagued him for weeks, notes swelling and lyrics scratching a tattoo against his skull. He could hum it without a second thought, though he’d never played it or sang it out loud. Despite it being locked away in his head it was as clear as anything he’d ever recorded and listened to repeatedly, trying to find mistakes he could smooth over and perfect.

Mark turned around, holding the notebook behind his back. Gary had it pressed against his chest, thumb marking his place. “Mark I couldn’t have looked through your boxes. If anyone looked through anything--”

“I know you couldn’t have looked through ‘em. But I swear Gaz, I didn’t look through yours, either.”

“So what, this is supposed to prove neither of us did?” He didn’t even try to hide his incredulity. For whatever reason, Mark was lying to him, and that hurt more than anything. How could he ever trust anything Mark ever said after this?

“On the count of three,” Mark pushed on, completely ignoring Gary. Was that what this was supposed to prove, then? What would it matter? There was no way they’d pick the same song even if Mark had managed to copy every song he’d written in the notebook. He’d not once ever told anyone what song he’d been singing on the elephant, despite having told Mark about the dream itself.

Mark counted slowly, as though he didn’t want three to ever come. As soon as he said it though, they both turned their notebooks outward.

It was the same song. The _exact_ same song. Same title--The Garden--same words, notes, everything. He frowned and turned it around so he could pore over each lyric, as if perhaps he’d forgotten his own writing. He hadn’t, though; it was exactly the same as he remembered. There was no way he could’ve guessed out of the many songs written in the pages that The Garden was the one in his dream.

Gary hadn’t once searched through his boxes nor the storage unit (which he hadn’t been aware of in the first place). Even if Mark had gone through his closet and copied down every song and notation in his own notebooks, there was no way he could’ve guessed which song played during that dream. Yet it was even more impossible for this coincidence to be real. 

He dropped the notebook again and walked out of the studio. He had to get out; had to get away. It was too hot, too crowded, too _much._ Head swimming, he walked down the stairs, every step heavy, and into the living room slowly. He plopped onto the sofa and pressed his face into his hands, harder and harder. He squeezed his eyes closed, brightly-coloured spots bursting in the black. He breathed hotly into his palms, counting each exhale.

Neither option made sense. Either Mark was pulling an elaborate prank and everything they’d had together was a lie or they’d somehow managed to spend years with their minds connected. Gary didn’t believe in fate or soul mates, or anything that it would take for it be real. Yet in the past few months he’d found his mind wandering in that direction. People talked all the time about how it had seemed like fate that they’d met each other, but Gary had truly started to toy with the idea legitimately; honestly, truly believe that somehow, maybe he and Mark really _were_ meant to be. But it was never real, was it? It was all manipulation. 

It had to be a lie. How long had Mark been doing this? Had he ever been honest with him? From the moment they’d met, was this planned? He’d had fans before do insane things to get involved with him, but nothing like this. So why twist it around on him? Why act like Gary had done it?

But _how_ had he done it? Snooping through his closet was one thing but copying everything down? Somehow figuring out what song had played in his dream? Turning it around on him?

“Gary?”

“How’d you know the song?” He lowered his shaking hands and stared at the floor. “I never told you the song. How did you know?”

“I didn’t go through your stuff, Gaz. And you’re right, you couldn’t’ve either.”

“Then what are you suggesting?” he asked the floor, swallowing hard. “Mark you can’t think this happened on its own, it’s impossible.”

“Well I didn’t do anything, you have to believe that. I thought you did, you’ve got that list--”

“I wrote that list before Take That was famous, and I wouldn’t--”

“Neither would I.”

Gary stared at the floor. He clenched his hands into fists. It was one thing to say Gary hadn’t done it; that was physically impossible. There was conclusive evidence proving he hadn’t. All Mark could give him was his word. 

Tears stung at the corner of his eyes. Gary couldn’t even look at Mark, it hurt so much. “You can’t honestly think--”

“What else am I supposed to think? I know I didn’t do it, and you didn’t, did you?”

Gary turned his head to look at him. “Of course not.”

Mark stood in the archway into the living room, shifting his weight between his feet. “Gaz you had a list about me. We’ve had the same dreams, same songs. There’s no way either of us could’ve done that. Something is goin’ on Gaz, I dunno what, but it is.”

“Like what, Mark?”

Mark shrugged and rubbed the back of his head, eyes downcast. “I dunno. Somethin’. There’s gotta be something in common with all these, yeah? Somethin’ with the dreams, right? The songs?”

Gary scoffed. “Just stop it, Mark. It’s not funny.“ His voice broke.

And to think he really believed anyone, especially someone like Mark, could really love him.

“Gaz I swear on my life I didn’t do this.” 

“So what, there’s some fucking subconscious shit goin’ on ‘cause we both fancied each other’s music?”

“I don’t know, but somethin’. C’mon, please. I swear I didn’t do it.”

Gary sighed. He was too tired, too hurt, to argue. “Right, okay. Let’s talk about the dreams.” He rubbed his temple.

Mark joined Gary on the sofa slowly. He even hesitated before fully sitting on the cushion. He licked his bottom lip, then pushed his fringe from his face. “That dream I had before, about me fightin’ with that actress. I was a bit vague about it but . . . Well. We were married, in my dream. And I cheated on her with Neva, the waitress.”

He sighed. “Mark, I don’t see how--”

“I cheated on you with her too.” He shifted on the cushion, brows furrowed with his fringe curtaining his eyes. “I’ve dreamt about it before, y’know. Before I even knew Neva. I recognised her when I met her but I didn’t know from where, ‘til I dreamt of her. You ever have dreams like that?”

At first he went to say no; he hadn‘t ever had a dream like that, and Mark should just stop pushing this bullshit. Except he had. 

“I’ve dreamt I was married to that dancer Howard dated. I was sleepin’ with you though, scared she’d catch us. I was in a studio somewhere. I think it was mine.” Dreaming about affairs with a good-looking popstar, whose face had been everywhere in the nineties, during a time Gary would have every reason to be plagued by it, only to develop a slight obsession with him while dating Allison, wasn’t in the slightest odd, though.

“I have kids.”

_So what?_ “Me too.” He stared at Mark angrily; none of this proved anything.

Mark drew his knees together and clasped his hands in his lap, knuckles white. “You had a baby die.”

His stomach dropped and the living room closed in on him; the words burned his ears and his mind spun. Mark looked expectantly, yet fearfully, at him; as if scared Gary would shout, or leave, or smack him. 

It had happened a year ago; the type of dream so intense he woke up crying, and couldn’t stop even after the grogginess had worn off. It had come out of nowhere; he wasn’t like Mark, he hadn’t longed for children for years and had, in fact, intentionally pushed all thoughts of children aside decades ago.

He’d never told anyone about it; not out of shame, but because dreams were unimportant. Why would he ever had any reason to say anything?

“Poppy,” he said, heart stopping in his chest.

Mark let out a breath and his shoulders sagged.

Relief washed over him, but only for a moment. Mark wasn’t lying to him, but that didn’t explain anything. Now Gary had no idea what was going on and that frightened him, but it was preferable to being manipulated by someone he loved and trusted. Being thrust into the unknown was far better than having his heart ripped out of his chest and thrown aside for a prank.

Gary turned his attention to the TV, though it was turned off. Images from his dreams ran through his mind at breakneck speed; dreams he‘d tucked away for fantasies, the kind that made him feel silly for having in his forties, every time he let himself get lost in them. “I’m on X Factor. Not as a contestant, as a judge.”

“I was there once with you, singin’.”

“About a raven.”

“Yeah.”

Gary closed his hands into fists, heart thumping harder in his chest and ears and throat. Hearing this didn’t make anything clearer; in fact, it fogged his thoughts even further. 

He swallowed hard and met Mark’s eyes. He had to ask. “There’s one thing they all have in common. Whenever I’m singin’, or when I’m with Dawn and have kids, all of the dreams with you . . . I just, there’s one thing.”

For as hard as he hoped he was right, he was equally as scared that he was wrong.

“You’re in Take That.”

These weren’t common themes based on similar feelings. These were too specific, almost as if they were shared memories of a life that hadn’t ever happened. More times than he could count he’d taken comfort in those dreams, tried to hold onto them as tightly as he could while he felt himself starting to wake. Nearly every song in that notebook had started out as something he heard in a dream, though they always inevitably turned into an obsessive string of lyrics and notes that drove him insane until he wrote it down.

For years he’d heard songs on the radio from a band he hated and yet cringed when his parents and brother insulted them on his behalf. Rather than feel the sting of an opportunity lost, it was the bone-deep pain of something being taken from him. It was his, dammit, it should have been his face on the posters with Mark and the others. Every spite-fuelled rant he shot in their direction, he berated himself for feeling so entitled to a band he’d never been a part of but absolutely should have, because that wasn’t how the world worked; he’d just been rejected, not robbed. Even though his criticisms were still true, as the band had been recyclable rubbish with nothing but meaningless words and catchy beats, it had never been about their talent, but the bitter taste of sour grapes he hadn’t even tasted. It was childish and immature and wrong, he’d told himself over and over, to be so adamant about disliking it, because he knew, as did all those close to him, it wasn’t about the quality. It was stupid to think he was owed anything, that he _should_ have been there.

Somehow, someway, he’d been right all along. 

“How long has this been goin’ on, Mark? Can you remember the first time?”

“Sometime in the nineties, I think. You?”

Gary squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never forget the first time. “The night I didn’t get in. I, er. I dreamt about you, meeting you at auditions. Singing. I thought it was . . . you know. I was upset.”

Since the audition he’d been turned away from this had been happening, whatever it was. Dreams? Songs? Being inexplicably drawn to each other? Some twisted, beautiful fate, one true soul mate and star-crossed lovers? Then why the focus on what could’ve been but never had? What was with the specific memories they shared, ones that hadn’t happened?

“Remember Gaz, in London, you said your life was missing somethin’? What if, I dunno. It is?”

“What, like magic?” Gary faced him. It sounded completely pathetic.

Mark’s mouth twisted awkwardly. “Well it sounded a bit different in me head.” He scratched his eyebrow and cleared his throat. “But well, I thought, well. What we didn’t have, you know. I didn’t have you. You didn’t have me. Then you and me, we meet and--well, I dunno. What if that’s--silly, never mind.”

It was ridiculous. Everything about this whole situation was _stupid._

Yet what other option was there?

“So I was in Take That and we were together at some point but here we have some . . . what, alternate reality where we weren’t?” Gary asked. Mark shrugged feebly. “Who wouldn’t want us together _that_ much?”

He tried to lighten the mood, because this was rapidly becoming more absurd. Magic, alternate realities, what? Time travel? What was this? And were they talking about it seriously? He couldn’t do that. He’d struggled with faith in God for years, even if he occasionally considered himself a Christian; he couldn’t allow himself to easily believe in whatever they were about to discuss _that_ simply.

Mark chuckled lightly, then he froze. His face slowly melted into something harder; jaw set, brows knitted together, and wrinkles deepening in his forehead and around his mouth. He met Gary’s eyes and comprehension dawned on his face.

A few seconds later, it clicked.


	19. I'd Cut My Fingers to the Bone

Mark didn’t bother knocking, he simply strode into the break room with Gary behind him. It wasn’t empty, not that he’d been expecting it to be. Steve slumped low in his chair and his forehead rested against the table. He grunted, but showed no other signs of acknowledgement, and Carlo stood in a corner, arms folded against his chest with his ear buds in, though his iPod was so loud and the room quiet enough he could hear the tinny sounds of what was likely dubstep coming from it.

Jeannie stood by the counter with a mug of coffee, her eyes narrowed in their direction. “You do know what fired means, don’t you? And I said neither of you were allowed back.”

“Why do we know each other?” Mark demanded, strolling over to her. Carlo straightened up and moved a few feet closer. “Me and Gaz. We knew each other before, didn’t we?”

Jeannie’s eyes widened and her pinched-tight lips loosened. 

Carlo put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Maybe we need to take a walk, eh?”

Jeannie shook her head and smiled at Carlo. “It’s all right. Actually, I need to have a private discussion with Mark. If you need anythin’, you come get me yeah? I’ll be outside.”

Carlo removed his hand and looked between them. “All right.”

Jeannie strode to the door leading outside, motioning for Gary and Mark to follow. It was quiet behind the diner and separated from the main car park. There were times when it was especially busy that people would start pulling their vehicles here, but for the most part it was usually empty. 

Mark wasted no time. “What’s goin’ on?”

Jeannie huffed and looked between them. “It sounds like you know already.”

“What, that we knew each other somehow? Doesn’t explain much, that,” Gary grumbled beside him, folding his arms.

Jeannie looked at something behind them. Mark looked over his shoulder and saw Carlo at the window, staring at them. She turned and started walking even further, going towards an old chain link fence, white slats of plastic threaded between the metal. A tree blocked the view from the window. The leaves were mostly green, though yellow tinged it throughout.

She folded her arms behind the tree, blocked by the trunk, her lip curling into a snarl. She peered around the tree, though Mark suspected it wasn’t out of paranoia and instead to avoid looking them in the eyes. “I didn’t do anything. I did what you told me to, okay?”

Mark frowned. “Wait, what?”

“I grant wishes.”

Gary groaned, rubbing both hands down his face. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“Obviously I’m not, you two came pokin’ in asking questions, didn’t you? Yeah, I grant wishes, okay? So it’s not my fault everything went to shit, I just grant wishes.”

Mark blinked at her. They’d come searching for answers, but that wasn’t what he expected to hear. Then again, he had no idea what he’d been expecting in the first place. “You . . . grant wishes?” 

She met his eyes challengingly. “Yes, Mark. I do. How d’ya think you quit smokin’, huh? Think it just happened on accident overnight? You wished you could quit there at the table, so I granted it.”

The pack that had been at the flat for months, untouched, was gone now. They’d thrown it away while packing things to move into Gary’s house. He’d kept it around just in case he needed it, but he never had. Even with it in his room, and him seeing it every morning as he dressed, he never had the urge to reach in and pull out a cigarette. Carlo had asked him how he’d quit and he hadn’t been able to answer; he hadn’t even noticed himself that he had stopped until it was pointed out to him.

Still, anybody could make up some outlandish story as to how he’d quit. Everyone in the workplace had wondered about it, including Mark. Even if it wasn’t a particularly interesting mystery, it was a mystery nonetheless.

She turned away from them, throwing her arms in the air while she ranted. “I was fucking American, all right? If I’d known you two were in a band together, were famous, I wouldn’t have granted a damn thing. We don’t grant wishes for celebrities; least not time-altering ones. Jesus.”

What in the fuck was going on? Obviously they’d come to the conclusion things weren’t as they appeared on their own, but now they were standing behind the tree at his former workplace, a few hours after being told Sandy died and losing his job, Jeannie telling them that she was, in fact, a genie.

“Yeah, this is getting ridiculous,” Mark agreed, sharing a look with Gary.

“No, what’s fucking _ridiculous,”_ Jeannie snapped, spinning around to face them with a scowl on her face, “is the fact that because of you shits, my best friend died. More’n that, she had a shit life. Do you know what Sandy did? She wrote music reviews for magazines. Published poetry books. She wrote lyrics, for bands. Not you guys of course, but others; pop bands. She made money from it too, and travelled the world. Now she took a few too many sleeping pills and she’s fucking gone, all because of you two, all because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“Hey, now I don’t see how that has anything to with Mark, or me, or anyone.”

“You haven’t noticed? All the earthquakes, tsunamis? What, did you think I’d tell you to stay away from each other ‘cause I don’t like him? Do you really think I’m that immature?”

“You said it was ’cause he hurt--”

“And I was being honest.”

Mark stood there, looking between Jeannie and Gary. It was too confusing and silly, all of it. 

She sighed heavily. “I was visiting Sandy, okay?” She turned away from them and started pacing, her hands balled into fists. “I saw you at a bar, crying, and I thought I could get some business done. I didn’t know who you were.” She paced back towards them, eyes watering and lip trembling. “Next thing I know, Sandy and Steve are asking for an autograph, and on the way back to their house, they’re telling me about Take That and how you two were married with children, and how they met on a forum. Steve was a Mark fan, Sandy was a Gary fan, it’s all . . . confusing, something about barlowen--”

“Wait, Sandy and Steve?” Mark interrupted, waving his hand as a gesture to make her stop talking.

“Is that really the most important thing here, Mark? Yes, they were married.”

“What does any of this have to do with earthquakes?” Gary asked.

“You know Romeo and Juliet? It was based on somethin’ that happened. We all get told that, before we are allowed to do any wish-granting--”

“Jesus Christ,” Gary moaned, rubbing his temples.

“If you’d rather me not say a damn thing,” she growled, shooting a nasty glare in his direction. He scowled at her, but closed his mouth. “It was based on a real story. Well, as it happens, centuries ago, who we know to be Juliet’s father summoned someone to grant a wish, and wished his daughter had never met her husband; that he had been in love with someone else. Well you know how that went.”

Mark snorted. “What does that have anything to do with us?”

“When you make a wish like that, the universe wants to go to its natural state. The closer it is to its natural state, the happier it is. It tries as hard as it can to get everyone back to normal, y’know? Gives you hints; it’s why Romeo found his way to that party, why out of everyone there, Juliet glanced at some boy she didn’t know and just knew he was the one for her. Normally the two of them would’ve ended up together again, no harm no foul, everyone goes home happy. But her dad, see, started a war, on purpose, with the family and did everything in his power to stop it from happening. That’s when we have trouble, see. And when somethin’, someone, stops it from happening, or it can’t happen for whatever reason, the universe finds ways to get rid of any anomaly, do you understand? If Romeo and Juliet hadn’t ever met, the universe wouldn’t have cared; been ignorant, not given a shit. But then they meet, and fall in love, and won’t leave. It directly goes against the wish, and nobody is lettin’ it happen. So instead, anyone who was involved in the original reality is killed. Everyone except who made the wish. So of course, two families all end up dead, ‘cause they were most affected by this other world. We get told this story so we won’t go around making any major changes; no granting wishes George Clooney never hit it big, ‘cause if he starts makin’ it into the mainstream at all, if he doesn’t make it as big as before, anyone who knew him in the previous life gets killed. You get what I mean now, don’t ya?”

“But we _are_ together! No one’s stoppin’ us but you! So why should anyone be dying?” Mark finally snapped, while Gary clenched his jaw angrily, lips pursed tightly, beside him.

“The wish wasn’t about being in love, you idiot! If it had, I’d’ve known you both were gay! It was about working together, it was about Take That! And you two can’t be near each other without the universe wanting the original Take That to exist, do you understand? And it fucking can't, because Howard’s dead. Do you fucking understand that? If you two spend any goddamn time together, you will fucking kill anyone who was ever aware of Take That! Anyone! Fuckin’ anyone who ever heard Back For Good, anyone who fucking loved you as a kid, anyone who knew anything. And you weren’t like you are here, do you understand? You weren’t some passing phase, fucking Boyzone bullshit, you were like the goddamn Beatles! Fuckin’ North America’s the only place that’s fuckin’ safe, and I don’t even know how true that is; even I knew Back For Good! 

“Do you have any fucking idea what it’s like, gettin’ shot back to fifteen years old and knowin’ you fucked up big? I had to relive most of my goddamn life and fuck, I should’ve known when I came across Mark that somehow, _somehow,_ the universe was trying to get you two together again, but I thought hey, Gary moved to LA, can’t possibly end bad!” She flung her hands in the air and paced erratically in front of them, long, blonde braid jerking with each step.

“That’s shit.”

She spun to face Gary. “Excuse me?”

“You really think we believe that? What, Mark made a wish ‘cause he was upset and now there’s gonna be an apocalypse? That’s what you‘re saying?”

Jeannie laughed, her tone strangely high pitched and eyes insanely wide. Gary took a step back from her while she kept shrieking at him, laughing louder and louder, higher and higher.

She slammed him against the tree, one hand squeezing his throat. “YES THAT IS WHAT I’M FUCKING SAYIN’!”

Mark leapt at her, grabbing her shoulder and yanking as hard as he could. She remained still as a stone, Gary’s face purpling while his fingers scrabbled at her fingers. “Jeannie! Jeannie stop! Stop it, please!” Mark shouted, gripping her arm tight and pulling.

“If I killed you now, we’d all be safe,” she whispered through clenched teeth, eyes wide.

Tears sprung up and clouded his vision. Gary’s choked rasps and gurgles scraped against his brain and ears. “Stop it, stop please, stop!”

She lifted Gary from the ground, the bottoms of his feet kicking out and hitting the bark behind him. Mark yanked and sobbed while she breathed harder and harder, ragged bursts of air like a train blowing smoke, chugging along the rack faster and faster, and Gary was going to die, right here in front of him, and as hard as he tried to stop it from happening he was going to fail, like he’d failed at everything--

He spotted the braid. He wrapped it around his fist and pulled it, hard, dropping his entire weight to the ground. She howled like a trodden-on cat and Gary collapsed on the grass, breathing heavily. He scrabbled to his feet, grabbed Mark’s free hand, and tugged him along, running towards the car park, one hand on his throat.

Gary’s car was in his sight when he felt nails in his arm. His back smacked against a nearby lorry hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs, and Jeannie punched him in the face. White popped in front of his vision and copper filled his mouth. Something wet slid down his lips and chin and she readied her fist again.

Gary shoved her away and she hit the asphalt with the same sound melons made hitting pavement and Mark wasted no time running again, wiping the blood beneath his nose with the back of his hand.

Gary whipped out his keys, hand shaking, while he tried to jam it into the lock. Jeannie pushed him away from the door, keys falling, and shoved him away from the car. Mark picked the keys from the ground and yanked Gary from her grasp. He stood in front of him, wielding the keys like claws in his fist. She stopped inches from him, body stiff and poised for attack.

“Pretty sure this would hurt,” he threatened, coughing when he sucked blood into the back of his throat with a sharp inhale.

“You think this is a game, hmm? Mark, I like you, but I like the world a lot more.”

“I take my wish back, then. Undo it.”

She blinked rapidly and her posture softened, though her hands were still balled into fists. “I . . . that’s not . . . .”

“I said I take it back!” he shouted.

“You can’t wish away the wish!”

“There has to be something!”

“All right, fine! Fine, but--but you have to put down the keys.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “I’m not putting anything down. You attacked us. I don’t trust you.” Gary clung to his back, fingers curling into the back of his uniform shirt.

She raised both of her hands. “Okay, fine. There is a fail safe, but it’s not going to do either of you any good.” Mark thrust his fist forward a bit and she huffed. “Fine. Whenever someone makes a wish like this, I create a fail safe, all right? After they make a wish I tell them to think of a memory the exact opposite of what they’re wishing for, a moment in time, and if they ever want to go back on their wish, they just have to recreate it.”

“So what is it then?” Gary asked from behind him, clutching tighter.

“I don’t know. I was never told.” Mark shook his fist. “I mean it! It’s just the exact opposite, the opposite of the wish, okay?”

“Fine then. Gaz and me, we’ll recreate that damn moment.”

“And if you don’t?”

Mark froze. It was his wish, right? The failsafe would come naturally to him, wouldn’t it? What else could they do? Kill each other? That was unacceptable. “We’ll figure it out.”

“If you don’t, nearly everyone on the planet will die. Do you understand?”

“We’re not gonna kill each other!” he snapped, clenching his fist so hard the metal of the keys dug into the sides of his fingers painfully.

“So leave each other. Never see each other again.” Mark lowered his fist slightly, but when she moved forward he jerked it back up again. “If you can’t fix this, everyone dies. Your families, your friends, everyone.”

“I’ll fix this,” Mark promised, voice wobbling.

She shook her head. “You won’t. Both of your memories? They’re gone. That fail safe? Gone.”

“I have to try,” he said, voice breaking and tears falling. “I can’t just give up, and you know that.”

She shook her head. “No. You have to give up. It’s not gonna happen.” 

Mark let out a small sob and shook his head vehemently; no. He couldn’t do that, he couldn’t leave Gary, he couldn’t ditch him or kill him, not after what it took for them to make it here. “Please, Jeannie.”

She lowered her gaze. “I give you until Monday. If you haven’t fixed it by then, one of you leaves. If you don’t, if you think you can run off together, I will find you, and I will kill you. If it’s between the two of you and the whole world . . . Well. The needs of the many, you know.” She opened her mouth, shook her head, and stalked away.

Mark stood still, fist shaking and knuckles white. He coughed, the taste of copper wet and strong on his tongue. Suddenly he felt the throb of pain in his nose and the harsh sting on his lip. Every muscle in his body went lax; he would’ve fallen, except Gary grabbed his shoulders and turned him into his chest. The keys clattered to the asphalt. He buried his face in Gary’s shirt, smearing it with blood. Gary stroked his back, though his breath was as loud and broken as Mark’s, and whispered; “Shhh, it’ll be okay, honeybee, we’ll be fine.”

It didn’t sound very convincing.

* * *

The bedside lamp cast a yellow glow big enough to highlight the contours of Gary’s face and the bruising on his neck. Half-moon shaped cuts marred his skin, small but scabbed. “Are you still having trouble swallowing?” Mark asked. 

Gary nodded. All day he’d been sipping water, though he winced whenever he did.

They hadn’t talked once they got home. Mark cleaned his face of blood and checked his nose; it wasn’t broken, but it was swollen and sensitive. His bottom lip was twice as big with a cut down the middle, though there was a cut on the inside of his top lip too, in the shape of his front teeth. Gary threw away his blood-covered shirt and changed into a new one. While he switched clothes, Mark saw small cuts and bruises on his back.

They finished unpacking the studio, silently and slowly. When they got hungry, Mark made a simple soup and they ate in front of the television. The news said something about a shooting somewhere in France that killed ten people and some kind of viral epidemic in Taiwan, so Mark changed the channel and watched a recorded episode of Jamie Oliver, because Breaking Bad had too much violence.

Whenever they caught each other’s eyes, Mark had a strong urge to say _something_ about what they’d learned, but nothing specifically came to mind. Eventually they made their way to bed, stripping their clothes and facing each other, naked and warm beneath the blankets.

Gary reached forward, touching the corner of Mark’s eyes, searching his face. “She’s right, honeybee. If it comes down to it, we have to leave each other, or die. Needs of the many.”

Mark swallowed the sharp lump of emotion in his throat. “I know.”

His fingers trailed down Mark’s cheek. “If we can’t fix it, I’ll go. You can have the house.” His voice shook and broke, tears falling down his cheeks.

“Don’t say that. We’ll figure it out, Gaz. We’ll fix it.”

“How? We don’t have those memories anymore.”

“Well don’t give up. Let’s talk about it, yeah? I’m sure we can think of something.” Gary let go of Mark’s face, hand resting between them. He averted his eyes. “Hey now, don’t give up. C’mon, we can think of something. Me and you, we’re not gonna end the world, and we’re not gonna kill ourselves, you hear? And we’ll figure it out before either of us has to leave.”

“We can’t just . . . continue as if nothin’ happened and hope we stumble into the bloody failsafe.”

“All right yeah, fine. Good point.” Mark put his hand under Gary’s chin and lifted it so their eyes could meet again. “So let’s think about it okay? It’s supposed to be a memory the exact opposite of what I wished for right?”

He pulled his head away from Mark and turned to his other side, taking most of the blankets with him. “We don’t have memories anymore, Mark, it’s pointless.”

The lamp cast light on Gary’s back, illuminating the cuts and bruises from being slammed against the tree. He reached forward and gingerly touched his shoulder blade. Gary didn’t flinch, so he cupped his shoulder and moved closer to him, pressing a small kiss against his skin. “S’not pointless, love. We’ve had dreams.”

“Why’d you make the wish? Maybe that’s what you should be askin’.” He spoke sharply, the way he sometimes did when they argued. 

Mark opened his mouth, but of course he had no answer. “I’m sure I didn’t know what I was doing. I doubt I thought she could actually grant anything, you know?”

“But you still said it. You still wished me out of Take That. You wanted me out of the band, out of your life. So maybe I should just leave, then. Fuck the failsafe.”

He tentatively wrapped his arm around Gary’s stomach, holding him chest-to-back. “That’s shite, Gaz, and you know it. There’s no version of me who’d want you gone. I can’t imagine a world like that. Besides, we have dreams about it, don’t we? Dunno about you, but none of those dreams seem like I’d want you gone.”

Gary started crying; quietly, but Mark could hear it just the same. His body shook and his hand clasped Mark’s, resting against his navel, and squeezed. “I’m not good enough, I never was, not there and not here,” he whispered chokingly. “You wanted me gone, Mark, _you wanted me gone.”_

“Hey, you listen to me. I don’t want you gone. I probably said it out of anger, or it was taken out of context. You actually think I went and summoned her? No, you heard her--said she saw me crying, went up to me to get work done. I love you and I always will, and I did then too, so we’re gonna figure this out and fix it.”

Gary kept crying, whole body shaking with his uneven gasps, but he held Mark’s hand tighter.

“Hey, hey c’mon Gaz, c’mere.” Mark turned Gary onto his back, face streaked with tears and eyes red. He leaned over him, wiping his wet cheeks with his thumb. “I won’t leave you, not unless we absolutely have to, all right? I dunno what other me was thinkin’, but I know that it wasn’t anything he meant, okay? There’s no me that doesn’t love you, okay?”

“I’m not good enough for you. Look at me, and I can’t even--”

Mark grabbed his chin to stop him from looking away. “No. Don’t go there. You’re gorgeous, and smart and hilarious, and everything I’ve ever wanted. I dreamt about you, loved you, before I knew you; you really think I’m gonna let this go without a fight?”

“Not sure I’m even worth it.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t _ever_ say that.” He cupped the side of his face. “I’d give anything, _anything,_ to be with you, for you to be happy, I love you that much. I’d die for you, and that doesn’t come from nothing, that had to have been there before, Gaz, I bloody swear it. And we’re gonna fight this, me and you, and we’re gonna make it, and make it out alive. I’m not letting you go.”

Gary closed his eyes, light reflecting off his tears, leaving golden streaks down his face. His adam’s apple bobbed, bringing attention to the bruise around his neck, and he sniffed. “Okay. So what do we do, then?”

Mark lowered himself to his side next to Gary, who stayed on his back. He kissed his shoulder and rested his hand on his chest, idly stroking the sparse hairs covering his sternum. “It’s the opposite of my wish, right?”

“That’s what she said, yeah,” he agreed dully, after a silence punctuated by sniffs.

“And the wish was that you weren’t in the band. So . . . . Auditions for Take That, right? Seems to make sense.” Gary turned his head, though stayed on his back, brows furrowed. Once the idea clicked in Mark’s head, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection before. “All we have to do is get Nigel to listen to your demo tape. I could give him a ring, make him listen to a demo tape, that’s all, really. I mean, we can’t put you in Take That, but it’s just one memory, right? One memory, one thing, that happened that er, you know, really means the opposite? Pretty sure.”

Gary slowly turned to his side. “You could do that? Set up a meeting?”

“Don’t see why not.”

Gary smiled and sniffed. “Could actually work, that.”

Mark grinned. “I’ll ring him first thing in the morning.”

They clasped hands between them, fingers threading together. Though it was small, Gary did smile until his eyes drifted closed and his breathing found a slow, steady rhythm. His grip softened, fingers no longer curling tightly around his palm, but Mark didn’t move even after he was asleep. When Gary started lightly snoring, Mark turned off the lamp and let himself cry.

* * *

Mark’s alarm pulled him from his sleep roughly, though Mark switched it off and didn’t move from bed. Gary rolled over, putting his head on Mark’s chest, and stayed there, holding to his side as he would a life raft. Mark’s fingers played at the base of his neck, nails lightly scratching at his skin. Mark was warm and solid and soft, and he never wanted to let go.

Their plan was a good one. It made sense and, from the sounds of it, was completely doable. It was also their only idea and they didn’t have much time to implement it. If it didn’t work, what else was there? Having to leave Mark and spend the rest of his life without him, constantly searching for a second-best replacement or choosing to remain alone, would be hell. He’d never find someone he loved as much as Mark, someone who fit with him as perfectly, because their lives were a direct result of being torn from each other when being with each other was the natural state. 

One moment of Mark talking to a stranger out of frustration and the next, they were living a second life with no memory of the first. He’d been nearly choked to death and now they faced the prospect of Armageddon. What stood in the way of all of this was a demo tape and a manager he’d not ever wanted to see again.

Eventually his bladder forced him out of bed. After he peed and stood at the sink to wash his hands, his heart dropped when he saw the bruising around his neck. Yesterday it had been red with darker spots, but it was almost entirely purple now, with lighter shades of blue throughout.

Mark came up behind him, hand trailing down his back. “Back’s all bruised up, Gaz,” he murmured, then faced the mirror. His eyes widened.

“Yeah, neck’s pretty bad. Not as sore as my back, though. Surprised she didn’t crush my windpipe.” Mark’s nose was still swollen as was his mouth. The bottom lip had a black bruise surrounding the cut down the centre, but the top was merely larger and redder. Beneath his eyes it was bruised lightly, though he could pass as being tired were it not for the rest. “You look pretty banged up yourself,” he muttered, turning off the sink and turning around.

Mark blocked his way, holding his chin and lifting it, peering at his throat. “Being hit isn’t the same as being choked, Gaz. Are you gonna be all right?”

He pulled his head back, away from Mark’s hand. “I’ll be fine. More concerned about . . . other things.”

“I’ll ring him up, right after breakfast.” He hugged Gary, naked bodies pressed together, and Gary wrapped his arms around him, closing his eyes; sinking into the embrace. “We’ll fix this, all right?”

For being shorter and thinner than him, Mark often seemed so much bigger than Gary could ever hope to be. He smiled and pulled away, cupping Mark’s jaw and smiling at him. “I know we will.”

He was lying; he knew no such thing. But sometimes it was better to put on a brave, hopeful front than be honest. Honesty had rarely ever done anything for him. Judging by the puffiness of Mark’s lids and redness of his eyes, skin beneath a little damp, he wasn’t the only one pretending.

* * *

Trying not to listen to Mark’s conversation with Nigel was impossible. He’d excused himself to the living room and Gary busied himself with pouring tea, but he could still hear it. The pleasantries were overly polite, and Mark’s; “It’s Mark Owen--no, it’s not about reforming the band,” didn’t give off an overall positive feel. Neither did the; “No, I’m not asking for management.”

Long silences from Mark twisted Gary’s chest and he fiddled with his teaspoon every time he stopped talking mid-word, only to be quiet for at least a full minute, with only a few non-committal I-promise-I’m-listening noises thrown in every once in awhile.

“I was wondering, do you have any openings available? No, no, I’m not--I’m not looking for a manager, it’s more of a . . . no, it’s not for me. It’s . . . a friend of mine, he’s--er, you know. It’s a bit of . . . bucket list thing, really.” Gary winced; it wasn’t the most positive-sounding excuse he could’ve said, though he wouldn’t have thought of anything better. “Yeah it’s just, er, a thing. A demo tape, he doesn’t--no, no, he doesn’t want to be signed to anything, yeah I know, too old I know, I’m just sayin’ it’s . . . it would mean a lot.”

Was Gary’s tea gone already? He poured some more, tapping incessantly at the table.

“Er no, Wednesday isn’t good, it’s--er, well. Monday’s not . . . Either. Hmm? Er, yeah it’s--well, um. He has lung cancer. Oh, umm . . . stage three. Yeah, it’s inoperable, doesn’t look good. Working around his chemo schedule. Could we do it tomorrow?” The Breaking Bad episodes they’d watched together the past month had been more helpful than he would’ve guessed, apparently. During the pause, Gary sat up straighter. “No it’s all right, um . . . . When’s your earliest opening? Doesn’t have to take long, really.”

Gary closed his eyes and held his breath.

“Just wants you to listen to his demo tape. No contracts, just listening.” Gary held his breath and closed his eyes. “We could email you the songs, yeah. Don’t think either of us have cassette players either. No, it’s fine, we can--we can drive to London, it’s not a problem at all. Sunday sounds great, yeah. Ten in the morning? I know where it is, just need your room number. Yeah, we’ll send it right away.”

Gary let out a relieved sigh.

“Thank you so much, Nigel, really means a lot. I’ll see you Sunday, at ten. Thanks again, really. Yes, have a nice day.”

Mark entered the kitchen with a small smile. He sat across from Gary and sipped his cup of tea. “So we just have to send him some songs and he’ll listen to ‘em before we get there. We’re supposed to meet him in London at the Kensington on Sunday. I told him it was all right if it wasn’t at an office.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. It’s just him listening to it that counts; s’not like you were there when it happened.” Mark nodded and stirred his tea idly. Gary shifted in his seat. “If you weren’t there, might mean it’s not the right memory, though,” he pointed out slowly, hating himself for bringing it up.

Mark lowered his head, but continued drinking his tea. “I know.” His teacup clinked against his saucer. “We have these dreams, and some of ‘em we’ve already done. Singing A Million Love Songs together, though Rob didn’t come in and catch us. Some of them we haven’t, but . . . it’s not like it’s anything we could do, anyway. Riding a mechanical elephant during a concert? So I have to believe it’s something that we can do because I can’t sit here and do nothing and wait for Monday. Besides, it makes sense. Even if I wasn’t there, what’s the opposite of you gettin’ into Take That? Not getting in.”

He had a point, of course. It was why they were doing it in the first place. But just because it made logical sense didn’t mean that it was going to work.

Gary watched Mark pick up his cup and take another drink. He tilted his head. “We haven’t sung any of the other songs.”

“Hmm?”

“All those songs in the notebook. They mean something to us, or how we used to be, something. We both wrote ‘em down, so they might be important, right? I know ‘em by heart, y’know. We could set up the keyboards, play and sing, maybe one of them meant something to us, _for_ us. We could do that all day, leave tomorrow for London if that doesn’t work. It can’t hurt, can it?”

Mark smiled over the brim of his teacup. “Good idea.”

* * *

After sending Nigel the exact songs he’d used for his demo tape, as well as a second group that were more recent because he was too embarrassed to send songs over twenty years old, they spent the rest of the day in the studio. He’d hooked up his keyboard and pulled out their notebooks, starting on the first page and playing the next without any breaks.

There was big difference between being nervous about singing a new song in front of someone for the first time and hoping that _this_ song would be the one that worked. With every one they went through, more weight pressed in on his chest and shoulders. There were a few that only Mark had and a few that only Gary had written, but for the most part they were identical in every way. Under any other circumstance he would’ve allowed themselves a moment of revelling in how great they sounded together and how good the music and lyrics were, but he didn’t dare let it happen now. Every song they went through without the world switching to normalcy felt like another failure.

Truth was, this wasn’t going to work. Call it pessimism, call it whatever, but singing songs they’d both written over the years and hoping it was the one memory that would fix everything was ridiculous. Meeting Nigel to talk about demos he’d listened and pretending it was some kind of desperate What If fulfilment of a dying man wasn’t any better. More than twenty years of memories were missing, any of which Mark could’ve inadvertently made as a failsafe, unaware that it was being used. Some woman sitting by him, telling him to think of a moment of Gary being in Take That? Logically, Nigel refusing to listen to his demo tape was the best guess, but the human mind was complicated and Mark hadn’t even been there when it happened. Even if one of their many dreams mattered, it wouldn’t be something meaningless like singing to each other in a recording studio or Nigel deciding to let Gary in the band (especially if Mark hadn’t been beside him when it happened). It would be something emotionally charged; something loving, beautiful. Something Mark was there to witness, something that left an impact for years; something that, when asked to think of a good moment with Gary, would pop into his head. Emotions weren’t rational.

Mark needed to act; to do. He couldn’t sit around and wait for Monday, no; he had to fill every second with working towards figuring it out. He’d told Gary as such.

Gary wasn’t that way.

He wanted to spend the last few days he had with Mark, enjoying his presence and soaking in every minute they had together. He wanted to hold him, caress him, commit every inch of his skin to memory and imprint the way it felt to have him in his arms into his brain. He wanted to get in the car and drive somewhere, anywhere, listening to Elton and watching the night sky through the windscreen, Mark in his lap and lips pressed together.

It took until after midnight for them to go through every page. Gary was hoarse and hungry by the time they finished. Mark made sandwiches despite Gary wanting to find someplace open late and eat there. Afterwards Mark went to bed, though Gary couldn’t sleep so he started filling the tub with hot water.

He’d only been bathing for a few minutes when Mark came into the bathroom and slid into the hot water with him, back pressed against his chest and head resting against his collarbone. Gary put his arms around his middle and held him there until the water was cool.

They shared a pillow and clung to each other in the night, skin against skin. Gary closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but to no avail. Mark cried into his pillow an hour after Gary went silent. He chose to let Mark believe he was asleep.


	20. And I'd Split My Sides In For you

Saturday started with a light drizzle, but the more they drove, the harder the rain became. Mark plugged his iPod into the car stereo to avoid the radio--more specifically, the news stories that might play in between songs. All of the hate she’d had towards Gary, all of the times she’d wanted Mark to stay away from him, and he hadn’t listened. He should’ve done as she told him. Because he hadn’t, because he’d insisted on spending time with him, people were dying en masse, and would continue, unless his plan worked, or they separated.

How many times had he been struck with déjà vu while with Gary? How many times had everything aligned so perfectly and felt so natural it had been as if they’d done it a hundred times before? No wonder everything felt perfect with Gary--they’d been together for twenty years.

“We were cheating on our wives,” Mark aired suddenly, stuck behind a lorry in gridlock, rain pattering the windscreen hard enough that even the wipers had to be running constantly.

“I know.”

Mark sunk down in his seat and stared out of the side window, fiddling with the seatbelt. “I cheated on you with Neva, and my wife. God I was a horrible husband.”

“Weren’t much better, me. I’d stay up watching telly until I was sure she’d be asleep so I didn’t have to lie next to her while she was awake. Always thought she’d start talkin’ to me, start askin’ what happened to us, wonder why I was so distant. We didn’t talk about stuff in the day, we always talked in bed, at night. Away from people. And I started . . . dreading it. I got tired of lying.”

“Pretty specific dream, Gaz.”

“I had it a lot when I was with Allison. Was weird ‘cause the dream took place, well, now-ish, so it was the future then. Always thought it . . . Well, just my fear, you know? That we’d end up like that.”

Mark sighed, air briefly steaming up the window. “We fight a lot, me and Emma. Not when the kids are around, though they probably hear. We try to keep it away from them. I spend most nights in my studio, me Rabbit Hutch. That’s what I call it.”

“I’ve dreamt about it. You have a snow globe with nothing in it. We laughed for ages over it.”

Mark chuckled at the memory, and the lorry picked up pace in front of them. “The Art of Doing Nothing, I remember. My album. God, and Willow caught us kissing when she came in for chocolate.”

“When Brian and I were first together,” Gary stated, passing the lorry in front of him as it was going slower than necessary, “he was engaged. For a few months we were sneaking around until he called it off. He never told her why. But there were times, with you, when we were . . . intimate, it felt a bit like those few months. Sneaking.”

Mark nodded, watching the window steam up with every exhale. “It’s a bit frightening. All of it, this other life, we didn’t remember.” Fear prickled the back of his neck. “Maybe we won’t remember this, either. It’s like dying.”

“We don’t have to do this. We could . . . spend the night then go our separate ways, if you want.”

Maybe it would be better that way. Even if this life hadn’t been perfect or exactly as he’d planned, he didn’t want it to mean nothing. He didn’t want every moment he’d had with Gary, with Rob, with his former boyfriends, to cease. It mattered, all of it, and if their plan worked, none of it would have happened; at the very least he wanted to remember everything. If he didn’t, then none of this mattered.

But going their separate ways and never spending time with each other again? That wouldn’t erase the dreams, it wouldn’t stop him from knowing he shouldn’t be here; that somewhere, he was happier, and with Gary, despite marriages and children. As much as this life mattered, and he wanted it to matter, he’d been miserable for the most of it, and would be miserable knowing that he’d caused so many deaths and that Gary was out there and they were supposed to be together. Sandy, among others, were permanently dead. He couldn’t be selfish.

It wasn’t death. It was never existing, and that was better than spending the rest of his life being fully aware of how it was meant to be, but wasn’t.

“We’re doing this. We have to.”

Fingers slid between his and he looked away from the mirror towards Gary. He steered with his right, but his left clutched Mark’s hand. It wasn’t much, but it helped.

* * *

They went to the same hotel they’d gone to last time, but this time they asked for a studio. The receptionist eyed Mark’s face slowly before scowling at Gary. Gary wore a turtleneck so his bruising wasn’t visible, but Mark couldn’t cover his whole face. Mark considered saying something along the lines of getting mugged or getting into a fist fight, though he doubted that would make the situation look better. If anything, it would sound like a terrible excuse. She didn’t stop glaring until she gave each of them a key card.

Gary pinched his lips together and stayed quiet the whole way to their room, arms folded tightly across his chest while they waited in the lift.

Inside the room, there was a kitchen directly to his left and a bathroom to his right. The bedroom itself wasn’t large, though the flat-screen on the wall and the bed was massive. Sliding glass doors lead to a balcony that overlooked London. Though it was only a little past four, the dismal grey sky and rain made it look, and feel, later, though this was more like the England he loved than the disgusting heat wave had been.

They hadn’t packed much but they took their time putting their clothes in the wardrobe provided for them and their toiletries in the bathroom. He nearly turned the television on, but hooked his iPod to the iHome on the bedside table instead. The last thing he wanted was to flip through channels on the TV and come across a report on yet another disaster that was entirely their fault.

He lay on the bed letting his music fill the room. Gary spent two songs looking through the cupboards in the kitchen and fiddling with the dishes inside, though he didn’t take any out or attempt to cook. Finally he joined Mark on the bed, atop the blankets and staring at the ceiling.

“Bit depressing playlist, this.” He held Mark’s hand, shoulders pressed together.

Mark sighed. “It’s fitting.”

“Do you remember when that monkey drank his own pee? And that boy, who kept talking about penguins and how they always find their way back to each other to his girlfriend. And there was that girl that we kept seeing who was a walking encyclopaedia, kept goin’ about all those animal facts.”

“Yeah.”

“And the elephants? When I was little I always thought elephants were massive. You know, like . . . prehistorically massive, dinosaurs. They’re not, though.” Mark had said the same thing to him, not too long ago. “I can’t believe we actually rode an elephant during a concert once, what that must’ve been like. I bet people talked about it for years.”

“Probably.”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough, yeah?”

Mark tilted his head so he could see Gary’s profile. He went to ask him if he really believed it would work, but he didn’t want to hear the answer. Even if he said yes, he couldn’t trust it; he’d say whatever he thought Mark wanted to hear. It was the only idea he had and the only one either of them could actually implement.

“Last time we were here,” Mark said instead, “you were trying to seduce me, weren’t you?”

Gary smiled. “Yeah, I was.”

“You’re a prat, you know? You could’ve just made the first move.” Gary simply laughed and Mark couldn’t help but smile; his laugh was unique and infectious. “I was so confused. Oh, and embarrassed, I remember, that first night, you fell asleep talkin’ to me and I said I loved you. God I worried you’d heard me.”

“You really said that?”

“I’d just realised I loved you earlier, when you were walkin’ down the steps in your garage. It hit me like a tonne of bricks.” He shifted onto his shoulder so he could be on his side more comfortably. “You spent that whole trip flirting with me but I didn’t know if you meant it or if you . . . I have no idea what I thought, maybe you didn’t understand that’s what you were doing. ‘Cause I thought you were straight. Well, sometimes.”

Gary turned onto his side too, one side of his mouth lifting into a smile. “I should’ve been honest. I was gonna kiss you, y’know. In the pool, when it was raining, but we were interrupted. If he hadn’t told us to leave . . . .”

“Bad timing, eh?” Mark scooted closer. “I remember that night, oh I had the most intense dream, had to wank in the shower after.”

“You should tell me more about that.” Gary’s pitch lowered and he quirked his eyebrow.

Mark chuckled, but even to his own ears it was lower than normal. He doubted them talking about a sex dream he’d had would accomplish anything important, but it might lead to a very welcome distraction from the doom crackling overhead like thunder. “We snuck into a pool in the middle of the night, and you put me on the edge of it. You pulled down me shorts and . . . .” He smirked and pressed his hand against Gary’s sternum.

Gary’s face fell. That wasn’t _quite_ the reaction he’d been hoping for.

“I had that dream too. You bumped into me getting out of the loo, I thought you’d seen that I was hard.”

Mark shifted closer to Gary. “You think it’s possible that . . . ?”

Gary licked his bottom lip, then stared at Mark’s. “No, doesn’t make sense that’d be your memory, does it?” He placed his hand on Mark’s side, slipping his warm palm underneath his shirt.

Hand still against Gary’s sternum, Mark slid it downward. “You’re right, doesn’t make much sense at all.”

“Course, better safe than sorry.”

Mark smirked and cupped the front of Gary‘s trousers, rubbing gently. “That’s true. I could’ve been thinking of anything, maybe I’d had a few drinks in me at that point.”

“Very, very true.” Gary closed his eyes and let out a small sigh, bucking into Mark’s hand. “We’ll need to go buy swimming trunks, I didn’t pack mine.”

Mark pulled his hand away, ignoring Gary’s pout. “Me either.”

They got off the bed. Mark nearly grabbed his mobile, but decided against it; he wouldn’t need it. He turned off his iPod and followed Gary towards the door. Before he reached the knob, he grabbed Gary’s elbow. “Gaz.”

He turned around. “Yeah?”

“This might be the last time we have sex. Even if the plan works, we’re not going to be ourselves, not the way we are now. And if it doesn’t work, we can’t see each other again.” A part of him wished he hadn’t said anything, but he had to do it; no use in shying away from the truth, was there?

Gary nodded, brows furrowed. “Yeah.” He looked downward and held Mark’s hand, thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. He met his eyes again, then leaned in, kissing the side of his mouth gently. “We’ll make it good, then.”

* * *

Gary wasn’t the person who had public sex, even less of a person who planned on doing it. It wasn’t that he’d never been carried away in the heat of the moment--he wasn’t going to forget the short Batman at Elton’s bash no matter how drunk they’d been--but it wasn’t something he ever intended on doing. Somehow, though, going to the shops and buying discounted, off-season swimming trunks for the purpose of taking them off (they would be off, right?) made him excited for it.

It didn’t take long for them to decide because neither of them were being picky. Gary just wanted something that fit. He chose the grey and green camouflage trunks, because it was either that or neon yellow with blue stripes down the side. Mark picked red trunks, because nothing else available fit him.

The went to their room only to change into the trunks and grab two towels, then quickly hurried to the pool, sharing glances and giggles on the way down. Though everyone they passed stared at his throat, he didn’t care; by tomorrow, none of it would matter, whether their plan worked or not.

It was half-past six and a bit nippy with a light rain, so the pool was empty. Rain rippled the surface and the cement was cool against his bare feet. They laid their towels underneath the plastic lounging chairs so the rain wouldn’t make them wet.

Gary stood at the edge, skin goosepimpling in the chilly breeze and light drizzle. Mark stepped beside him and held his hand. “Ready?” Mark asked, giving him a quick squeeze.

“Yeah.”

They both jumped into the cold water. Gary’s shrieks came out as bubbles and he hurried to the surface, sucking in air and shivering. Mark tossed his head back, shaggy hair arching and slapping against his head. His hands smoothed it back, and he smiled at Gary, teeth chattering.

It was uncomfortably cold; definitely not the weather he’d typically go swimming in. Still, he swam closer and rubbed Mark’s shoulders, though he doubted that it was going to warm him up any. His palms were just as wet and cold. “It’s a bit nippy, yeah?”

Mark nodded, then pulled Gary into a hug. “Yeah.”

Gary closed his eyes, hands flat against Mark’s back as he rubbed up and down. He felt Mark’s nose in his hair and heard him breath in deeply. Gary pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, then jaw, before bringing the lobe of his ear into his mouth. Mark made a low noise that was more than a hum but not quite a groan. Gary pulled out of the embrace and slid his hands up Mark’s chest, moving in to kiss his lips softly. He didn’t want to hurt his already cut mouth, or break the scab. Mark didn’t wince, so he tilted his head and deepened it, though he made sure to keep it gentle and the pace slow.

No part of him believed this would work, but he needed this. Perhaps Mark needed it, too. People were dying and whether or not meeting Nigel would do anything, come Monday they would leave each other, whether physically or just as they existed now. At least if it worked they’d have successful careers and still had each other. It was the better of the two options, though he doubted that it would work.

He grinded against Mark, hands slipping down his sides and clutching at his hipbones. It was cold so he was having difficulty getting aroused, but eventually he’d get used to the temperature or Mark would excite him enough where it wouldn’t be an issue.

“What if someone sees us?” he asked before quickly resuming the kiss.

“We’ll just have to be quick.” Mark shoved his hand into Gary’s trunks and started jerking him. “By doin’ this, for example.”

He slid his tongue into Mark’s mouth, though not for long because he had to pull away and gasp. He was getting hard, out in the open, and someone could, at any moment, interrupt them. 

It really shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was.

“Gotta be fast, yeah?”

Mark nodded.

Gary pushed him against the nearest pool wall and Mark chuckled lowly. He picked him up, the water making it easier, and sat him on the edge, water lapping over it, soaking to his knees. He skimmed his hands up Mark's thighs and over his trunks, smirking up at him. “You better pray to God no one catches us doing this.”

“I’ll be shouting to God all right.”

“Do what you like,” he muttered, ignoring the whirring déjà vu, “long as you do it quietly.”

He pulled his trunks down, just enough to release his cock. It wasn’t hard, not that Gary blamed him as it was stressful and cold and raining. He grabbed his hips, pulling him closer to the edge, and sucked on the head, pushing the tip of his tongue into his foreskin.

He held Mark’s waist with his left hand, thumb resting over his dolphin tattoo and worked at his own shaft with his right, trying to keep it erect despite not being used to the water temperature quite yet.

He slipped Mark’s hardening cock fully into his mouth and bobbed his head, quicker and quicker, in fear that if he took his time someone might see. Tiny moans and gasps from Mark shot straight to Gary’s dick, so he stroked faster. When the head of Mark’s cock was free of the foreskin entirely, Gary pulled away and stroked him with his left, in time with jerking himself. Mark’s hips rocked back and forth, eyes hooded and half a smile on his face.

Gary pulled Mark’s trunks completely off his legs and placed them beside Mark’s thigh. He pulled Mark into the pool with him, wet naked body slipping against his. He pushed his own trunks down just enough to let himself free. Mark smirked and cupped his face with wet palms, kissing him deeply, but slowly. There was a tinge of copper on his tongue, but Mark pushed harder against his lips, thrusting his tongue faster.

Gary kissed him into the wall, rain falling faster, and lifted Mark’s legs so they wrapped around his waist. He pushed into Mark’s hole with a gasp; he was tight and warm, and in contrast with the water it was almost shocking. “Jesus,” he moaned into Mark’s collarbone, biting at the skin. “You all right?”

“Fuck me.”

Knees beneath his arms and ankles at the small of his back, Gary pistoned into him, pinching his lips tightly together to keep himself from crying out. Though Mark wasn't shouting, he was gasping and grunting with each hard shove in, hands scrabbling at his back and biting his ear.

He was hot and tight and god, Gary didn’t do this. He never did this, but here he was, doing it, and throwing himself into it fully, pleasure building at the base of his spine while Mark grinded back and forth, faster and faster.

Water splashed around him, raindrops hitting his skin, and he was desperate for release; desperate not for orgasm, but desperate because it was the last time he could be with Mark this way.

He was getting close, and judging by the frequency Mark kept whispering his name and asking for God, he was soon to follow.

Mark came, forehead pressed against his shoulder, legs and arms wrapped around him, squeezing hard. He shook, breath hot and nails digging into his skin, and Gary still pushed into him, warmth and tightness surrounding his shaft. It was so hot and dangerous and new, and he felt young again. He came inside him, pressing him against the wall and burying himself as deep as he could.

He let out a breath and Mark went lax against him. Gary pressed kisses to his shoulder and jaw, and Mark trailed his fingers along his shoulder blades, dipping into the water and dragging them across his back again. They hadn’t used any lube, but he hoped that with as much sex as they had been having and being in the water would make up for it enough that Mark wouldn’t be too sore. He hadn’t exactly been gentle, though he had been much rougher in the past.

Under any other circumstances he would’ve been embarrassed at how quick it had been, but Mark hadn’t lasted long either. He lowered Mark from being wrapped around him, and stared at him, into his eyes and the small smudge of red underneath his lip. He wiped it away with his wrinkled thumb, and pressed their lips together gently.

Mark grabbed the trunks by the edge of the pool and slipped them back on. He embraced Gary again, pruned palms rubbing his back when he buried his face into his shoulder. Rain kept falling and he hugged him in return. 

He kissed him in the rain, body shivering and teeth chattering. As far as distractions went, he couldn’t think of anything better, and it didn’t fix their situation any, but he wasn’t filled with crushing foreboding. It didn’t make their situation perfect, but it had certainly lightened his spirits. Considering everything that had happened in the past two days, even if it was only slightly and briefly, any relief was good enough.

“Thank you, honeybee” he murmured against his flesh.

Mark hummed. “Yeah.”

It was cold and raining, so they couldn’t stay long. After awhile the rain hitting his skin was sharp and he shook so hard he couldn’t concentrate. They pulled themselves from the pool after a little snogging, grabbed their towels and dried off as they walked to the lift.

They giggled quietly in the lift, standing close, while the other person riding up with them kept giving them strange looks. She got off two floors below them, and as soon as the doors slid shut behind her, they burst into laughter. Being impulsive was so long ago Gary had forgotten the thrill of it; the leftover giddiness of getting away with something, rather than shame and fear.

Mark squeezed his bum while he opened the door, snorting back laughter until he gave into his high-pitched giggles. “Gotta get into somethin’ dry, I’m frozen,” Gary said, kissing Mark quickly before going over to the wardrobe he’d put his clothes in.

“Shaking like a leaf over here, too. Don’t regret it, though.”

He threw his clothes on their bed and shucked his trunks. “Me either. You know, I’m not the adventurous type. Don’t really do that often.” He put on his pants and trousers, grateful for the dry, warm clothing.

“What’s that, get naughty in public? You’re missin’ out.”

Gary buttoned up his shirt, glancing over to see Mark slipping into tight trousers that flattered his bum. “Well you know, I did with Brian few times. Had a picnic late at night once, middle of summer. Well, we snuck off to an alley once too, we were a bit pissed though.”

Mark slid into his shirt, the purple silk dark against his skin in contrast. “That all?” He started buttoning it, starting from the bottom.

Gary shrugged, eyeing Mark’s lean body and soaking in his beauty. “With Brian, yeah. I had a bit too much alcohol and got with someone at Elton’s fiftieth. It was funny, I was dressed as Robin.”

Mark’s fingers fumbled on one of the buttons. “Sorry?”

“Like, Robin and Batman, y’know. I looked terrible, but--”

Mark’s phone rang. He brushed his wet fringe away from his forehead, looked between the phone and Gary, then held up a finger. “Hold that thought Gaz, gotta get that.”

He went to the bedside table, shoulder bumping Gary’s as he walked passed. Gary picked up the soaking trunks as Mark answered with a; “Hello? Oh, Ayda. Hey, how’re--”

A soft thunk interrupted the brief, but sudden, silence.

He turned around to see Mark standing in front of the bedside table, stiff as a statue, and his phone on the carpet beside his foot. His hand was still beside his face, as if holding an invisible mobile to his ear.

“Mark?”

He sunk to the floor limply, as if every bone had disappeared from his body. As soon as he hit the ground he wailed, the way a cat would after stepping on its tail.

Gary was at his side a second later, wet trunks somewhere behind him, and put his arms around his shoulders. “Mark, Mark what’s happened, what’s wrong?” Mark merely pushed his face into his chest and screamed, fingers digging into his shirt and pulling so hard a button popped. Though he’d heard Mark cry before, he had never heard that; had never heard a sound so inhuman and full of pain the sides of his own eyes burned.

He heard a tinny voice from the phone. “Hello?!” he demanded before even registering he’d grabbed the phone.

He heard crying on the other end; a woman, sobbing. “Is this Gary?” she brokenly gasped. He didn’t recognise her voice.

“Yeah, it is. What’s goin’ on?”

“It’s--it’s Rob, he--I don’t know why, I thought he was doing fine--” She paused to suck in a few breaths. “He OD’d, he just slipped up, just once, and he took too much--”

All sound dropped out and were he not already on his knees, he probably would’ve fallen to them. Blood rushed past his ears, drowning out Mark sobbing and Ayda trying to speak through her tears. He could feel the rotation of the earth, how fast it was spinning, hurtling through space, an uncaring void; a black vacuum that crushed everything in its wake, and his stomach twisted with the movement. A high-pitched ringing sounded, louder and louder, echoing in his head.

He tried to apologise--not give condolences, but apologise--because it was his fault, wasn’t it? He shouldn’t have gone along with Mark’s plan, he should’ve left in the middle of the night like he’d spent hours considering; how easy it would’ve been to pack up everything while Mark slept, leave a note, and go. But no, nothing bad would’ve happened between then and Monday, he’d told himself. And if nothing worked, he could leave then, it would be okay, everyone would be okay. Like an idiot, he’d talked himself down from it; shoved the already-composed letter from his mind before even grabbing a pen and clamped down on the nausea that formed in his stomach. It was just two days, he’d repeated in his head to stop himself from sliding out of bed and going. How could he have been so stupid? So selfish? His mouth didn’t work and his throat dried too quickly for words to come.

“--don’t think he has long left, I just don’t know what to do, they won’t let me see him--”

“What?” All sound came rushing back, so intense and sudden he worried he’d puke.

“They aren’t letting me see him, he’s not dead but they’re--they don’t think he has much time left, he’s slipped into a coma, they’re doing something, working on him, and I--I just don’t _know.”_

He wasn’t dead. He’d OD’d but he wasn’t dead, not yet. 

Ayda broke down into sobs, and Mark clung tighter, cried harder.

Gary’s vision was too blurred to see anything, burning with tears, and he hung up, phone going silent.

He could fix this. Even if it was the only thing he could.

He blinked, hot tears cutting down his cheeks, and he went through Mark’s contacts list five times before he saw her name.

He pressed dial and held the phone to his ear, head swelling so large he worried it would fall from his shoulders like an overripe melon, splitting and pouring everything to the carpet.

“What do you want?” Jeannie greeted.

“Rob,” he answered.

“Gary, is that you?”

He swallowed a lump made of knives. “He OD’d. Robbie Williams. I don’t know how long he has. If we can’t fix this, Mark doesn’t deserve to live here without his best mate. I need you to save him.” He spoke clearly; concisely. She needed to understand exactly what he meant, what he was asking. The world wasn’t spinning properly; everything was slow and too loud or too quiet and if he didn’t, she wouldn’t hear him.

“I need you to say the words, Gary,” she ordered after an eternity of slow, quiet breathing.

“I wish for Robbie to be healed.”

“Fine.” Had she done it? Would she make it in time? How did it work? Did she have to be there to do it? Could she appear there or would she have to physically go? What hospital was Rob in, anyway? Would he die before she could do anything? “Never ring me again.”

She hung up. Gary dropped the phone and fell to his back, taking Mark with him.

* * *

It wasn’t until after ten that Ayda rang to tell him that Rob had miraculously pulled through, though he’d have to stay for overnight observation. Whether or not they were going to talk about rehab or getting some help for his relapse outside of the hospital wasn’t discussed, but Mark was glad to hear he’d survived.

They’d cried on the floor beside the bed until they couldn’t anymore. They climbed onto the bed and held each other after. They hadn’t moved from the mattress, only curled together under the blankets, reeking of chlorine, even as they dried. She’d rang three times while they were out shopping and having sex in the pool. Had they not left for their selfish little respite from the responsibilities of his actions, he wouldn’t have missed her.

It ended well, he supposed, but that didn’t make him feel any better about himself. If it weren’t for Gary having the presence of mind to make a wish to Jeannie, Rob would be dead.

Rain pattered the sliding glass door, moon visible in the black sky, the room as dark as the night outside.

“Thank you,” he whispered for the hundredth time, half to break the silence, and half because he meant it as much as he had the other ninety-nine times he’d said it.

Like before, Gary merely made a noise, but gave no other sign of having heard him.

Who would come next? Their parents? Siblings? Nieces and nephews? How many best friends and relatives had died due to them wanting a few more days to try and fix everything? How many would die before they saw Nigel?

If their plan didn’t work, all of their victims would remain dead. It had to work, they _had_ to go back, because otherwise he was no better than a murderer. Sandy and thousands of others, hundreds of thousands, had been at his mercy for the past few months. It was better for none of these memories to exist than for that to remain true.

“Do you think we’ll have dreams about us?” he asked, sliding his hand into Gary’s shirt where the buttons had snapped free, rubbing his chest.

Gary turned his head to look at Mark. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“I hope so. I don’t want to forget this.”

“Forget what? Rob almost dying?”

Mark leaned above Gary, shaking his head. “No. I don’t want to forget _this.”_ He kissed Gary and when he pulled back, Gary touched the corners of his eyes before sliding his hands into his hair. “Your list and asking me into your car, lettin’ me smoke in it. We spent years looking for each other. We loved each other before we knew each other, and I want--I want to know that, want to know that we’re, me and you, we’re not an option. Every me loves every you.”

Gary held his face. “I think we’ll remember.”


	21. A Moment That I Wanna Find

Dressing to get ready for Nigel was funereal. There was no question as to why it was, nor why he had a hard time meeting Gary’s eyes as they packed everything back into their luggage. He’d fallen asleep sooner than he’d wanted and slept later then he’d planned. Gary was up before Mark was, already getting ready for the day, and Mark watched him get dressed for a few moments before he’d decided to get ready himself.

It was nine when they checked out of the hotel, stomachs growling, though when they went through a drive-thru and ordered off the breakfast menu, neither of them finished their meal. They made it to the Kensington early and parked, sitting in silence. As nice as the hotel they’d stayed at had been, it was nothing in comparison to this. 

He had memories of both lives here, and likely would in the other (or at least, he hoped). Maybe this would be where it all ended for them, or maybe it wouldn’t.

Mark dreaded both scenarios, but he wanted it to work. He _needed_ it.

Rob nearly died because of him and Sandy had. That wasn’t a world he wanted to live in, nor one where he was separated from the one person he spent the majority of his life trying to find. There would always be an empty hole in his chest and the urge to go running to him, and the guilt of the deaths on his shoulders. He couldn’t live here like that. 

“I was Batman,” he blurted, perhaps because it was more proof, but likely because he wanted to put off the meeting. Just because he needed this to work, and needed for this life to be completely erased, didn’t mean he was eager to lose it all, if it even worked. 

“What’s that?”

“At Elton’s fiftieth, I dressed as Batman. We were all . . . upset, ‘cause Howard had just . . . . He was supposed to be Batman. We weren’t gonna go, ‘cause he . . . but we knew he’d have wanted us to.” He sank lower in his seat, folding his arms. “I drank a bit too much. We all did. We were just so upset, and goin’ wasn’t helping as much as I’d wanted, so I . . . drank. Just wanted to be numb, really. Then I saw a cute Robin, went over and started dancing with him.” He turned to smile at Gary, though it pained him to do so. “I don’t remember much ‘cept what happened in the loo, and that he blushed pretty and tasted like wine.”

Another memory he wanted to hold onto for the rest of his life was seeing Gary’s face when it dawned on him what that meant; the way his eyebrows raised and eyes sparkled; how his mouth curved into a half-smile.

Thunder boomed and the rain intensified, pattering the windscreen hard and fast. Mark jerked his head towards the Kensington and unbuckled. “C’mon,” he said, opening his car door. “Don’t wanna be late.”

He hurried across the car park towards the hotel, hands in his pockets, when Gary grabbed his elbow, spun him, and swooped him into his arms with a kiss, uncaring that a family ran by them, the children splashing in puddles and laughing. Kissing in the rain never got old, and neither did kissing Gary; feeling his strong arms wrapped around him and large hands slipping into his hair. He leaned into his broad chest and soaked in the warmth his body provided, allowing himself to feel safe and comforted as more thunder clapped in the sky above them.

“Let’s go save the world,” Gary suggested after their kiss ended, leaving Mark breathless.

He smiled into Gary’s face. “My hero.”

* * *

The world wasn’t going to be saved with swords and martial arts; it was going to be saved sitting on a couch. Gary stared at the coffee table in a hotel room that was more like a small house. It could be the last place he ever sat with Mark beside him. There were three cups of tea, one for each other them. It wasn’t as if he’d expected there to be much else, and there was no need for bells and whistles, but even still, it felt more than a little anti-climactic.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” Gary gushed the moment Nigel sat across from them in his chair.

Nigel’s beady, watery eyes fell on him, focusing right on his throat before going back over to Mark’s bruised lip. Luckily, he didn’t comment on their injuries. “I’m a philanthropist. I couldn’t let you die without giving it a listen.” He flashed a smile and chuckled. “You look good, Mr. Barlow.”

“I’ve only just started the chemo.” He sought Mark’s hand, holding it and hoping his palm wasn’t disgustingly sweaty.

“So I was pleased to hear that you were dating my little Marky.” Mark squeezed his hand tight enough it hurt, though it was only for a second. “Not very often one can say they get to be with someone they had posters of on their walls, is it?”

“I never had posters, really.”

Nigel laughed the way a cat would laugh after letting a bird fly free, only for the pleasure of being able to catch it again. “So about those songs you sent me,” he opened the second the laughter stopped, face going completely straight. He crossed his legs. “I’ve got to tell you, I regretted turning you away as soon as I heard your first album. A Million Love Songs? Utter genius.”

Was Gary smiling too much? His cheeks felt too stretched and teeth too clenched. “If I recall you didn’t listen to my demo tape at all.”

Nigel shook his head. “You were too plump for a boyband, if you don’t mind me saying.” He looked him over slowly. “Not as plump as you are now, though. It’s that middle age, isn’t it?” He laughed again, patting his own stomach, although he had passed middle age more than a decade ago.

This time, it was Gary who squeezed Mark’s hand.

“But you liked it, his music?” Mark pressed when Gary couldn’t bring himself to talk and the silence had started to stretch uncomfortably.

Nigel nodded. “Well, let’s put it this way: if I’d listened to it when you offered, I would’ve let you into the band no matter how you looked.”

And there it was; what they needed. It was the opposite of what Mark wished for, and this was as close as they could get to recreating it. As ego-stroking as it was to hear, he was in Take That in this other reality so it wasn’t anything new. 

He waited for Jeannie to appear in a puff of smoke and the world to melt around him. Instead, there were no trombones; no trumpets or choirs of angels strumming harps. There wasn’t smoke, or fire, or a flash. There was just Nigel, smiling falsely at him, and asking; “Do either of you want biscuits?”

No, no this wasn’t any good. He didn’t want biscuits, he wanted to wake up in Take That, with nobody dying and the many years of memories he wanted-- _deserved_ \--to have with Mark.

He wasn’t supposed to be sitting across a twisted, perverted man pretending to smile and nod along. They were supposed to wake up in each other’s arms in some hotel together, talking about tours and ignoring the topics of their wives, and instead they were quietly munching biscuits and washing it down with tea.

There was nothing else to do. There were no spare elephants or empty stadiums they could fill. They were done. Finished. In a few hours they’d be separated for good, never to be seen together again. All of the mornings they spent slowly waking up in each other’s arms, staring into each other’s eyes, or spooning naked, making love slowly and avoiding each other’s mouths if their breath was particularly strong that day, meant nothing. Gary spending so much time holding back his feelings and worrying himself sick over coming out was a complete waste. Breakfasts and teas and arguments over whether they should eat in or out for dinner would haunt him for the rest of his life, and every time he heard Radiohead he’d have to stop the song or lose himself in his pain.

Rob had nearly died because of them, and all for nothing. Sandy, and the others who actually had died, wouldn’t come back. They wouldn’t be living perfectly normal lives in a world where he released albums and sang to thousands regularly. They were simply dead.

His stomach churned and bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard but the bile returned, so he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, interrupting whatever Nigel had been saying, “um, but I’m not--I’m feeling a bit ill, I think I need to go. The chemo.”

Nigel nodded, pulling the tray of biscuits closer to him. “Right, of course. I wouldn’t want sick all over the carpet.”

Gary laughed feebly as he stood, leaving Nigel’s room with a weak goodbye. 

The hallway stretched impossibly long towards the lift. Door after door after door, and he walked faster, head spinning. No, no he didn’t want to leave Mark. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life crying every time he saw an elephant on the television or a dolphin tattoo. He didn’t want to lives with thousands on deaths on his shoulders.

Of course it was ridiculous to have thought that meeting with Nigel would do anything. Why would it? His luck for the majority of this life had been terrible so why would it get better for no reason when he needed it most?

He could hear Mark following and calling his name, but he didn’t stop until he found the lift. He jammed the call button repeatedly, blinking away tears.

As soon as the lift came he went inside and Mark stepped beside him. The doors closed after he pressed the button for the ground floor. “What do we do now?”

“We get in the car and go to Manchester.” 

“Don’t say that, Gary,” Mark said, though his voice shook. He rubbed his back. “We can--we still have the rest of the day. We can think of somethin’, we have loads of dreams to choose from. One of ‘em has got to be it, has to be something we can do. We can’t give up, all right? It’ll be--”

“No.”

Mark blinked at him incredulously.

Gary stared at the buttons that lit up with each floor. “I don’t want to do anything. I just want to spend what time I have left with you, okay? Just let me have that.”

Through his tear-filled vision, he watched Mark’s chin wobble. How he wanted to give in to what Mark asked. He wished he had the strength to fight more, but he didn’t. All he had left was Mark, and not for much longer.

“Okay,” he said brokenly as the lift doors opened.

Gary nodded and held Mark’s hand as they left the lift. “Thank you.”

* * *

Hundreds of dreams flashed through Mark’s head and he tried to work a plan around every one of them. At one point, he caught himself planning a break-in at the zoo after closing hours and ringing up Rob for a favour in filling a stadium with fans more than willing to be trampled by an elephant he couldn’t control.

Listening to Gary’s iPod while they drove through rain reminded him of the first weeks after they’d met. If only he could go back to that time, when everything was simple and new, laughing and discussing music, complaining about the heat that only got more intense as time wore on, and Mark wanting more than anything to kiss him senseless and hope he was gay.

Falling in love all over again, with someone he’d dreamt of loving for years, and being so damn clueless, hadn’t felt easy at the time, but was a cakewalk in comparison to this. Gary cried silently, wet tears shining on his cheeks, and Mark wanted to say something, anything, to make it better, but he was in no state to do any of that; he’d been crying the whole ride, too.

The weather slowed traffic considerably, and every song on Gary’s iPod seemed more depressing than the last. The lyrics weren’t upsetting and some of the melodies were downright peppy, but maybe two years down the road when he sat on a sofa where he’d once cuddled with Gary during lunch breaks that song would play on the television and he’d remember this moment; driving back to Manchester while he cried, after wasting precious time he could’ve spent taking advantage of every moment instead of singing songs from a notebook and scheduling meetings with a manager he couldn’t stand. They could’ve been spending time together, time that actually mattered, instead of wasting it on a stupid idea that neither of them had really believed would work, but followed through out of sheer desperation. Now he’d spend the rest of his life curling in on himself, holding an invisible Gary so tightly he lost circulation.

When they made it to Manchester hours later, Mark’s chest tightened. Was Gary going to just drop him off at the house and keep driving? What would he tell Rob when he eventually was well enough to call him and ask after Gary? Would he tell him that the world depended on it? How would that explain having the house?

Instead, Gary drove past the street that led home. The gutters were flooded and, while not dangerously so, the roads were as well, so that with every car that drove by, water splashed around the tyres. Wherever they were going, it was preferable to being dumped without a goodbye.

He took him to a hill overlooking Manchester. Despite being mid-afternoon, there wasn’t anybody around due to the weather. He parked the car atop the hill, rain washing down the windscreen, making it difficult to really see the city. It didn’t matter, though; it was dismally grey, anyway. Gary kept the radio on, his iPod hooked into it so music played.

Gary went into the artists section of the iPod. Elton John was highlighted before he put it on shuffle. Mark smiled, though it pained him. Of course he’d play Elton. Gary relaxed in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. Mark simply watched him lean his head back and mouth the lyrics. The rain pattered against the car. The sound of it and the music lulled around him, padding the silence with comfort.

They held hands between the seats, staring at Manchester before them. It really was a beautiful city, even in the rain. If this was to be their last day together, there weren’t many other ways he’d have wanted to start it, either.

I Need You To Turn To filled the car next and Gary hummed, gesturing towards the iPod with his chin. “In our other life, at least in my dreams, this reminds me of us. At least, I think so. I can’t listen to it with Dawn hearing, anyway.” He chuckled once, breathily. “It’s fitting though, a bit.”

Mark focused on the song, taking in the lyrics and watching the rain fall. It took him back to the first time they talked in his car, fag between his fingers while they talked about music and listened to his iPod. Everything had been so simple then, but that had been the start of it all. If he hadn’t done more than smile at him and never sat in the car to warm up and talk, they wouldn’t be here now. He may have spent his whole life missing something, but at least he would’ve been ignorant about it. At least the world wouldn’t be ending.

“I come here in my dreams sometimes. I don’t know if it’s the same dream or if I’ve done it multiple times,” Gary said, brushing Mark’s knuckles with his thumb. “I’m joggin’, it’s real early in the morning, sun’s just coming up, and I stop up here. I jog in place for a bit and I just look out over Manchester, and I think ‘this is our town, me and his.’ I’m standing, looking out over everything, and then I go ‘I want to marry him.’”

Mark tore his eyes from the windscreen to look at Gary, who kept facing forward. “You want to marry me?”

“Unless there’s some other bloke I don’t know about.” He smiled briefly, but didn’t look at Mark. “I want to so much it hurts ‘cause I know I can’t. And I jog away, crying, ‘cause I know I don’t deserve it. I’m not good enough for you.”

“You’re more than enough, Gaz.” Gary looked at him, eyes shimmering. Mark smiled at him, though his vision started blurring with his own tears. “After we started dating, I dreamt about practising proposing to you. Sometimes when I’m washing me hands in the loo, sometimes in the car, other places. Just saying it out loud, ‘Gary Barlow, will you marry me?’ over and over.”

Gary smiled and let go of Mark’s hand to hold his face instead. He pinched his lips together, tears falling down his cheeks. “I would’ve said yes,” he sniffed, bottom lip wobbling. “A hundred times over, Mark, I love you.”

Mark nodded, crying. “I love you too.” Gary sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath and that was all it took for Mark to lose it. He wrapped his arms around Gary and buried his face into his shoulder, sobbing. “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you,” he wailed into his shirt, fingers clutching at the fabric.

“Me too, honeybee. God, how I wanted that.” They’d killed thousands of people, including Sandy. Rob nearly died because of them. There was no way they could risk anyone else’s life. It was the only possible option.

Doing the right thing wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. It wasn’t supposed to tear out his heart and replace it with an acid-soaked bomb. Even if the other versions of themselves were married, at least they had each other; here, they could never see each other again. It was stupid and painful and he’d give anything to never leave this embrace; to never leave Gary, and spend the rest of his life curled up under the sheets with him, laughing at a ridiculous dream or snuggling on the couch watching Star Trek together. They’d never watched that marathon together, and now they never would. What he would give to be able to chase Gary around for stealing his hat and belting out the _Ghostbusters_ theme song or to laugh so hard he cried because Gary was impersonating various celebrities and attacking him with tickles again.

_“And I wonder sometimes and I know I’m unkind . . .”_

He withdrew from the hug and held Gary’s face between his hands, sniffling and gulping back tears. Gary returned the favour, fingertips pushing into his temple and cheeks. He kissed him, hard; his scab tore and the salty taste of tears was tinged with copper. He kissed him again and again through his choked cries.

_“. . . but I need you to turn to when I act so blind . . .”_

He pulled back, face soaked and mouth wet. Gold seeped into Gary’s lips and Mark sniffed, tilting his head. Trails of sparkles followed his thumbs when he stroked his cheeks. Gary took in a shaky breath with narrowed eyes and cleared his throat. He leaned in and kissed him gingerly. When the kiss ended, bright lights left Gary’s mouth.

_“. . . and I need you to turn to when I lose control . . .”_

Raindrops that hit the windows glowed for the briefest of seconds before dissipating. I Need You To Turn To played louder and he swallowed. The tears were outlined in soft light, shining as they fell down Gary’s cheeks, the rain glowing brighter and brighter.

_“You’re my guardian angel . . .”_

He dragged the tips of his fingers along Gary’s hairline, watching the line of gold follow, and Gary touched the sides of Mark’s eyes. 

_“. . . who keeps out the cold . . .”_

A grin split Gary’s face and a small laugh erupted, before he kissed him again, hard, and Mark wrapped his arms around him. After every kiss, a golden imprint remained on Gary’s lips, staying longer and shining brighter. Every touch and caress left a trail of sparkling light. He laughed through his tears and Gary tugged him onto his lap, windows glowing with ethereal incandescence.

Straddling Gary, blinking through his tears and grinning harder when his skin started to shine, they kept kissing; cheeks, temples, lips, jaws. “I love you,” he whispered against his mouth, Gary’s stubble scratching at his skin.

“I love you, I love you,” Gary replied just as quietly and urgently as Mark had.

Everything glowed brighter and brighter, gold fading into white, until Mark couldn’t open his eyes without feeling the sting of too much light. He squeezed his lids shut and kissed Gary over and over again, heart thumping harder in his chest, Gary’s hands sliding beneath his shirt and up his back sending electric sparks, warm and comforting, up his spine; his lips tingled every time they kissed.

They’d found it; the memory, the failsafe. How had they never kissed in a car before? Why it was that, and not Nigel, was a question for the ages, but he wasn’t about to complain. What mattered was they figured it out, nobody was going to die, they’d be together like they were before, regardless of whether they remembered this or not. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life alone; he was going to spend it in Gary’s arms, even if only on the weekends or on tours, hiding away in hotels. Trysts were better than nothing and that’s all that mattered.

It was so simple; so obvious. They could’ve been sent back ages ago if he’d given into his urges their first time in the car together, nicotine on his tongue and Elton on the radio. The first night after they met, he’d dreamt of this. This song, this kiss, this rain. Out of all the dreams he considered, how had he forgotten the first one after meeting him?

It didn’t matter anymore. Now, knees on either side of Gary’s thighs, he caressed and kissed him, music thrumming through the air and warm electricity sparking up his arms. Warmth pooled in his abdomen and spread throughout his body, from the tips of his toes to the ends of his fingers. For what it was worth, even if he wouldn’t remember, he was more than glad that kissing Gary would be the last thing he ever did before hurtling towards another existence. He pressed their foreheads together, holding his face, and breathed the same air.

“I love you,” he whispered one last time before everything faded away.

* * *

Mark jerked awake on a bed in a room that wasn’t Gary’s; wasn’t _his._ One second he was snogging Gary in his car, overlooking Manchester, and the next he was in bed, surrounded by warm, fluffy blankets on a soft pillow.

It all came rushing back; Emma, the children, his life--his _real_ life. He sat up blearily, wearing his pyjamas, rubbing his eyes and blinking at the light--sunlight, good natural sunlight, not magical, glowing remnants of kissing and rain and music and--

Laughter sounded from somewhere outside his room--the kitchen. Laughter he hadn’t heard in twenty years, and yet he’d heard yesterday at the same time; memories bled together, both lives became one. It had only been a few hours since he’d seen them last, but decades too, and he rushed out of his room, eyes stinging and sternum aching from the pound of his heart.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, he was running. Sunlight streamed through the windows, particles of dust swimming in the golden glow, illuminating Elwood and Willow, laughing.

“Come on now, finish your breakfast, both of you.”

“Mum, I’m teaching Willow how to dance!” Elwood whined, holding Willow’s hands and swinging them back and forth.

Mark fell to his knees before them, throat tight and dry, and swooped them into a hug, squeezing tightly and hot tears falling down his cheeks. For so many years, _so many years,_ he had longed for them, longed to feel them in his arms, against his chest, without even knowing who they were and why they were always there, always in his mind. His children, his babies, and they were finally here, finally wrapped up in a tight hug against his chest. Emma stared at him, expression stuck somewhere between bemusement and endearment, but he didn’t care; he smothered their faces with kisses and smelled their hair, the fabric softener of their clothes, the fact Willow used too much toothpaste so when she laughed mint hit him full force.

“Gross, Dad!” Elwood scrunched up his face, but didn’t even try to get out of his hug.

He stood and went to Fox, in her highchair, fingers and mouth and cheeks smeared with food. He didn’t care that her hands smushed beans into his hair when he kissed her over and over. Willow attached herself to his leg when he held Fox's small head in his hands and cried, openly, smiling hard.

“Hey Dad, watch this!” Elwood said and he turned, Fox’s tiny hand clutching his index finger. Elwood swung his arms around like a windmill while he jumped in a circle. “Did you see that?” he asked, eyes wide and smile huge.

“Yes, I did.” He sniffed loudly and wiped away his tears, cheeks aching from how hard he smiled.

“Why are you crying?” Willow asked, tugging on his pyjama top. 

He knelt beside her, brushing her flaming hair from her face. “Sometimes daddies cry because they love their babies so much.”

“I’m not a baby,” Elwood muttered, jerking his arms around like a robot.

He looked up at Emma, who stared at him with half a smile on her face, eyes sparkling. He stood and moved in front of her. She, too, wore her pyjamas with her dyed-blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, and he pushed an errant lock behind her ear. Even if he could never love her the way she deserved, he still cared about her, and did love her. She was still the mother of his children, and living in a world where she’d died, remembering her, hurt.

He hugged her, closing his eyes and taking in her scent. After every morning shower, she always rubbed lotion into her skin; cucumber-melon, from the smell of it, and she put her hands against his waist. “Are you okay?” she breathed, backing away from the hug with her brows furrowed.

He nodded, wiping a tear from his cheek with his thumb. “I’m fine.”

His mobile rang, ringtone jarring. He turned towards the sound; it was beside a bowl of cereal, milky smudges against the screen. Either Willow or Elwood had been playing with it. He took the phone and walked away from the counter, shooting; “Eat your breakfast,” over his shoulder.

He wiped the screen clean on his shirt and stared at Gary’s name while it rang. He answered it as soon as he made it into the next room.

“Hello?”

“Er, hey Mark,” Gary greeted.

Twenty years ago--yesterday--came rushing back to him; arguing with Gary, voices raising and pacing around each other quicker and faster, until Mark had finally had enough and stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind him. It wasn’t the worst argument they’d ever had, but it had still been pretty heated. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t fought about before; Mark was, as ever, tired of living a lie and despite how many times Gary said he was too, he never made any move to suggest he was going to leave Dawn. Any time it seemed as if he was nearing it, he would take a step backward, tearing the hope Mark had to shreds. Living in a universe, pining for someone he hadn’t met, put the whole thing into perspective of course, but it still hurt. 

Unkind words echoed in his mind. “Hey Gaz. Look, about yesterday--I shouldn’t have been--I was awful, I’m sorry.” He waited for Gary to say something--anything. He didn’t have to accept the apology or even apologise himself; he just needed to say _something._

Gary cleared his throat. “It’s all right, honeybee.”

Mark slumped against the wall behind him, back of his head thunking against it. “Oh thank God you remember.”

“Jesus Christ I worried you wouldn’t. Look, can we talk? Er, face to face.”

Mark nodded. “Yeah, just can it wait ‘til after breakfast? I want to eat with my kids.”

“Of course. I’m about to pop in the kitchen and make some brekkie for the kids meself.” Mark swallowed, still nodding even though Gary couldn’t see him. “Um, Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“What I said in the car, before. About when I was jogging.” He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. _Please don’t take it back._ “I meant it, you know that right? I meant what I said.”

If he hadn’t already had tears in his eyes, he would’ve started crying then. “I meant it too.”

* * *

Before he went to the Rabbit Hutch, he told Emma he was expecting Gary and to send him over as soon as he showed. He fiddled with his coffee holder and ran his hand through his hair. It was strange, not only going from autumn of 2013 straight into spring of 2014, but being in his studio after years of it not existing, waiting for a man he’d seen yesterday, but twenty years ago at the same time. Gary had visited plenty of times before so there was no reason to be nervous, but it was different now. They’d lived together--only for a few days, but even before he’d moved in, they’d been inseparable. Having an affair was different from being openly together. They hadn’t had marriages there or hundreds of fans gushing about their perfect wives. In fact, everyone had been aware of it and mostly accepting. There was no reason to hide, and now, suddenly, there was. Again.

Being able to wake up in Gary’s arms nearly every morning, kiss in diners, and hold hands in public had been wonderful; everything Mark had ever wanted for them. Working at a diner hadn’t been glamorous, but being openly with Gary had been great.

Still, despite the good he’d had there, he’d choose this reality every time. Being without Take That was horrible. Mark couldn’t live without music, without being involved in it. It was as much a part of him as his smile. As important as that was to him though, nothing compared to seeing his children; smelling their hair, hearing them laugh. He never wanted to be in a world without Elwood, Willow, and Fox again. 

Gary knocked before he walked in. He didn’t need an invitation. He shut the door behind him and stood with his back against it.

Mark drank in the sight of him. He wore khakis and a plain blue shirt; nothing flashy, but still more fashion conscious than the other reality. He was thin; so thin it shocked him, yet as thin as he always was. It was hard to differentiate between seeing him yesterday in one reality and the other. The other Gary was chubbier, the way he had been during Ultimate Tour, and yet smaller somehow. He was so thin now, though he held himself as if he were larger.

“Hey.”

Mark waved. “Morning.”

“Afternoon, really.”

Mark smiled. “You knew what I meant.” 

He moved towards Gary, but stopped two feet later. Nothing had changed between them, not really, and yet somehow, everything had. This wasn’t another argument they could apologise to each other over and call it a day. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t said to each other before, shouting and pacing and throwing their hands in the air while their voices grew steadily louder, but this time they’d been hurled into twenty years of a life without each other; a world where Gary had never been in Take That, all over an unintended wish. Were it not for their one stroke of good luck, they’d still be there now, saying goodbye.

“It was you. You made the wish,” Mark accused quietly.

Gary leaned against the door, adam’s apple bobbing. He nodded once. 

There was much Mark could ask. Did he regret being with Mark that much? Was he so angry that he couldn’t stand the thought of wasting his life with him? Why did he do it?

He settled with; “Why the car? Why did that send us back?”

Gary lowered his head and scuffed the floor. “I don’t remember where we were, or when it happened, honestly. The car, listening to Elton. I thought she was trying to comfort me, best as a stranger could, when she told me to think of the exact opposite. And . . . I don’t remember what we were talking about, I just remember I Need You To Turn To, and realising I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Better than wishing we’d never worked together, you know?”

“Did it make you feel better?”

He stopped leaning against the door and rubbed the back of his head. “Until I went to bed, then I woke up, sat in front of Nigel bein’ told to get out.”

For him, he’d been at home, talking to Emma while they brushed their teeth before bed, in front of the mirror, before slipping into bed beside her. It would’ve been jarring to go from falling asleep beside Emma to being a suddenly conscious teenager on the verge of becoming a pop star had he remembered.

Gary strode to him, pale eyes searching him from head to toe. He touched the corner of Mark’s eyes, then threaded his fingers through his hair. “Your hair was longer there.” He explored his face, corners of his mouth lifting.

“You laughed louder.”

Gary kissed him as if it hurt him to do so. When he pulled away, his eyes were wet, though no tears fell. “It _is_ better here though, yeah?”

“In most ways. All the ways that matter.” He dragged his eyes from his throat, free from any bruising, to his grey-blue eyes. “Why’d you do it? Make the wish.”

Gary lowered his hand from Mark’s hair. He hesitated, hand frozen in the space between their faces, before lowering it entirely. “It’s not like I knew she could grant wishes, Mark. I was angry. We’d just argued, you know?” he breathed, eyes still moving across his face, as if trying to commit every inch to memory.

“Right. So we get into an argument and you go storming off, wishing we’d never met. Thanks.”

Gary glared at him at him, though there was no fire in his eyes. “I knew you’d take it like that, you always take it like that. It’s not what I meant, what I meant--I didn’t wish we’d never met. I wished I’d never--I didn’t even mean to wish anything at all, she was a stranger, had no idea who I was. I was a bit drunk, okay? And everything you said, playing in my head, and you were right, Mark. I’ve always, _always,_ put Take That first, put it before you. All I’ve ever done is hurt you, hurt you in the name of the band, and so I--so I told her I had a friend, someone I’d hurt, that I’d always hurt, that I'd been terrible to who deserved so much better, and I wished I’d never been in the band--said you’d be happier for it.”

Mark swallowed. The friend Gary had hurt, the one Jeannie had mentioned, had been him all along. She had no idea what Gary had meant, just that he said he’d ruined his life. Of course, they then had ruined Sandy’s life, and nearly everyone on the planet’s.

“If I’d known she’d actually grant it, I . . . .”

Mark waited for him to finish, and his heart fell when Gary’s face did.

“I’d have made the wish still.”

“You’re that miserable with me?”

Gary sighed and looked heavenward. “That’s not what I said.”

“Then explain it to me ‘cause that’s what I heard.”

“How many times are we gonna have that argument? Same one, over and over, it is. And you’re right! I can’t--Mark, I can’t keep doing this to you. You deserve better, and--and maybe if I hadn’t come in your life and ruined it for you, from the beginning--” His voice cracked. He stopped talking, eyes squeezed shut. His bottom lip twitched when he pressed them together. He let out a broken breath before he opened his wet eyes. “You’ve never--you’d be better off if I weren’t here. All I do is hurt you, and bring you down. Christ you had to go off to Neva ‘cause I wasn’t enough, I’ll _never_ be enough. You’d be happier if I wasn’t here.”

“This is what I’m talkin’ about, Gaz. You can’t--you can’t _make_ decisions for me. If you’re not happy with me then leave ‘cause you want to, don’t sit here and make it into some bloody altruistic shit, saying it’s for me. You don’t get to make decisions on my behalf, this is _my_ life, and I _choose_ this. How can you ever say I’d be happier after everything we just--” 

He pressed his hands to his face, palms hot. He breathed in, trying to calm himself. It didn’t work. 

Mark dragged his palms downward, slowly, though they caught on his mouth a second longer before they dropped. “I just spent twenty years not knowing you. I wasn’t fucking happier, I was miserable. We almost ended the world ‘cause we couldn’t be happy with anyone but each other, and you’re sat there telling me otherwise? C’mon, Gaz, that’s shit.”

Gary shook his head. “It’s not, though. How many times, Mark? How many times have I said not now, just after this next tour, after this next album? It’s just fucking music, and you--you’re doing so well with Emma, maybe I should--”

“Is that what you think? You really think I’m happy here? I’m doing well? We go weeks without talking, Gaz. And when we do, we fight half the time. I sleep out here most days, you think that’s what I want?”

“I’m just--I’m just thinking about what’s best for you.”

“But you don’t get to decide that!” he snapped suddenly. Gary didn’t jump so much as twitch, but it had clearly caught him off guard. “You don’t get to decide what I want, what’s best for me! If you wanna go, fucking go, but own up to it! That’s exactly what I fucking said, that I was fucking _tired_ of it always resting on you, it’s always your decisions! Well what about me, Gaz? When’s it my turn to make a choice? If I had my way I’d sneak ‘round with you ‘til we were eighty over not having you at all! But I’m allowed to get angry when you back off, _yet again,_ from telling Dawn, over and over and over. You swear you’re gonna tell her, and then you don’t; you swear you’re leaving, then you stay! I can yell at you for that, I can throw a tantrum, stomp my feet, without it meaning I don’t want you in my life still! It’s 2014, Gaz, how many more times will I get me hopes up?”

“I don’t know!” Gary threw his hands in the air and paced away from him. “I’m not good at this, I’m not good for you! I can’t--Mark, I can’t, all right? I’m scared, all the time, everything. They’ve turned on me before, the world, everyone, people who swore they’d love me for ages, they turned on me. Hated me. I was a punch line.”

“It’s different now. You know it is.” Gary stood with his back turned, hands locked behind his bowed head. Mark came up behind him, slowly, and touched his shoulder blade. “We searched for each other for over twenty years, Gaz. If that’s not worth leaving our wives for then I dunno what is.”

Gary didn’t turn to face him, but he didn’t pull away from his touch, either. Mark slid his palm down his back, then wrapped his arms around his abdomen, holding him close. Gary let his arms drop to his sides. Mark kissed the back of his neck, pushing the angry words he wanted to say down. Arguing caused this mess. He needed to fix it.

Gary relaxed in his embrace, sliding his hands over Mark’s, clasped across his navel. “I want to, Mark. You have to know that.”

“I do.” He kissed the back of his neck again, hesitating before the next sentence. “We have everything we want here; kids, music. Everything but being together and that was all we had there. After having you, really, I don’t know if I can go back to this.”

“You’re going to tell Emma.”

It wasn't a question. There was nothing to answer.

Gary removed himself from Mark’s embrace and turned. “You’re telling her, aren’t you? Tell me. Are you?”

Mark swallowed before he nodded, once. “I’m sorry.”

Gary’s adam’s apple bobbed and eyes closed. Mark stood there, trying to keep his breath steady. He waited; waited for a shout, or tears, or for Gary to storm off, slamming the door behind him. It was wrong of him to push, to force Gary along if he wasn’t ready, but he was tired. Tired of wanting to move along but being forced to stay behind, like usual; tired of never having a choice in the matter. It was his life too, his affair. It was Dawn’s life, and Emma’s life, and their children’s lives, and he was done. He was done with it all and if Gary couldn’t handle that, then he could deal with the consequences. 

“She won’t go to the press or anything. If you don’t want me to mention you at all, I won’t. You don’t have to say anything to Dawn, but I can’t do it anymore.” How could he go back to holding Emma’s hand when he’d grown used to the way Gary’s fit in his so perfectly? How could he pretend it didn’t kill him every time they went weeks without seeing each other after seeing him every day?

Gary’s eyes opened and he nodded, lips pulled tight. “Okay.”

He wasn’t enthusiastic, but he did pull Mark into a hug, strong arms holding him tightly. Mark rubbed his back, soaking in his warmth. His scent swept over him, strong and familiar and comforting. It would be harder and longer here, the process of moving in and living together, coming out and figuring out the situation with their children, but being able to hug him without fear of being caught would make it worth it.

“Earlier on the phone, you said you meant it. That you wanted to marry me,” Mark asked carefully, still rubbing his back, though slowly.

“I did.” He balled his hands into fists, clutching at the back of Mark’s shirt. “Why? Are you proposing to me?”

“Maybe,” he breathed into his ear, half-coy, half-tentative. 

Gary moved so that he could look into Mark’s face without stopping their hug. One eyebrow arched above the other.

“Gary Barlow,” he swallowed, blood rushing past his ears, “will you marry me?”

He gave him a lopsided grin and brought his hand up, touching the corner of Mark’s eye. “Yeah,” he answered quietly. “I will.”

Epilogue

Anyone who knew Steve and Sandy could tell the house wasn’t something they’d picked. There were too many rooms and floors; everything was cream and soft and bright, plastic-covered furniture matching each room perfectly. No pictures adorned the walls and no stereos with music pumping through the air played. It was a nice house; it just wasn’t theirs.

“Thanks for the housewarming gift,” Steve said, taking the nicely wrapped box from her hands. “You always know just what to get us, Jeannie.”

“You’re welcome.”

He gestured at the couch. “Take a seat; don’t worry about the plastic, Nan was always a bit weird with that shit.” Jeannie went over to the sofa; it squeaked when she sat. Steve shook the present a little. “This isn’t breakable or anything, is it?” When Jeannie shook her head, he tossed it onto the armchair across from her. “Gonna go help Sandy in the kitchen. Turn on the telly if you want; hoping we got everything set up proper, these fucking flat screens are the shit, you know? Swear I got PTSD after watching _Pearl Harbor_ this last week. Fucking wicked, mate.”

Jeannie smiled and grabbed the remote, tossing it between her hands while Steve went down the hall.

London was gorgeous, not that it outshone New York or anything; it was simply different. She never minded visiting her friends; she loved it, actually. She was always up for a vacation, especially out of country. Steve and Sandy were one of the few people in her life who were there on their own, not out of some wish she had granted. Not only were they wonderful friends, but they were in her life organically, and that was rare to come by with her side job.

She’d spent ages online trying to find a magazine with the first real article Sandy ever wrote; it was only one page praising an album she’d loved years ago, Open Road. Without that, she’d have never been hired on as a columnist reviewing music. If she hadn’t been involved with that, she’d have never met a few people in the business, nor started writing lyrics for pop stars. Her career meant a lot to her, even if now she was a columnist for an online news site as her side job, her main one being writing lyrics for other people to get famous off of. Jeannie would never understand the appeal to that, but she loved her career of managing restaurants as well, so she could empathise with that, at least. Besides, Sandy published a few poetry books. Even if there wasn’t a large fan base for her work, there was that.

From what she’d heard of Open Road, and the conversation she’d had with Gary Barlow himself, neither it or the artist held her interest. Steve did, however, care. They’d met through shared love of the band Gary had been in before, so getting that magazine for them had been important, even if the house was just handed to them from a will. Even if Jeannie wasn’t impressed with Gary Barlow, the effort in finding the review was worth it for her best friends.

Jeannie had been drunk when they’d talked; not as drunk as Gary, however. They’d both been able to hold a decent conversation though. She’d been more than aware of herself and what she was doing. After listening to him whine about how terrible of a person he was, not only in general but how he was to his friend, Mark, she hadn’t had much sympathy for him, but a wish was a wish. From what he had said, granting it would help Mark more than Gary anyway, and no artist was as good as Gary thought himself to be, from the sounds of it, especially a damn pop music writer. It wasn’t as if he wrote real music from any discernible, logical point of view, regardless of what Sandy said. There was no deeper meaning to their music than there had been to the Backstreet Boys. The only difference was that Take That was massively famous and comparable to the Beatles in the musical charts, with the exception of in America. Maybe it was rude of her to think, but the chance of a band making that big of an impact without America’s involvement seemed slim. It had scared her though, to hear of how big they were mere minutes after granting a wish eradicating it entirely. Maybe she’d been right, though. After all, granting his wish had impacted nothing, and Steve and Sandy were huge fans. It was hard for fans to be objective. Still, just thinking about the damage that her wish granting could have caused had Steve and Sandy been right gave her pause and maybe coloured her dislike for Gary even more.

After hearing Steve and Sandy gush about how lucky she was to have talked with him, she had panicked. She waited for the worst, but it never happened. She moved back to New York. Occasionally she heard Gary’s name whereas she hadn’t before, but never in reference to Take That. Maybe people spoke of him as much as they always had and now did she notice. Maybe it was as new as she felt. It didn’t matter. She’d only heard about Mark much later when he came out as gay and in a relationship (with Gary, which actually changed the context of their entire conversation) because Sandy had sent an email gloating about how she and Steve called it ages ago.

Take That were doing a concert next month, for which Steve and Sandy had bought VIP tickets already. They talked about how the band has lost a member. She didn’t need to search them on Google to know who it was that wasn’t part of Take That anymore; after all, she’d been the one who granted his wish, hadn’t she? She was surprised Sandy still cared; she’d always been a Gary fan, whereas Steve leaned more towards Mark.

All in all, the wish hadn’t been nearly as bad as she’d expected. It was her fault for worrying so much. Of course Gary would overstate his actual importance in anything, as would any fan of any band. After all, how important could any band be without America knowing about it? From the sounds of it, Gary leaving had fixed his relationship with Mark, anyway.

Someone knocked on the door, then rang the doorbell.

“Jeannie, could you get that for me? Thanks!” Sandy called from the kitchen.

Jeannie went to the door and opened it.

Speak of the devil. 

Gary Barlow stood on the porch, smiling widely. As soon as he saw her, though, he stopped grinning. There was no way he could’ve recognised her, of course; it had been almost two years since they’d talked; either April or May of 2014.

“Jeannie,” he greeted, sounding as stunned as she was. He actually remembered her? She’d even had a different hair colour then; red, if she recalled. She dyed her hair often, so she couldn’t be sure of that. “Erm, I’m looking for Sandy.”

“She’s busy in the kitchen.” A limo was parked on the curb with the back window rolled down. Another man’s head poked out. He wore a massive pink scarf.

“The accent suits you.” Gary fiddled with an envelope.

She narrowed her eyes. “Um, thanks? I’m a New Yorker.”

“I know.” His smile, though wide, was as fake as the black dye in her hair.

She gestured at the envelope in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Wedding invitation, for Sandy and a plus one.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Could you make sure they get this? Don’t want to interrupt her cooking. It’s a surprise, this. They did something for us once, wanted to repay the favour.”

She nodded, smiling at him. “Yeah, I’ll make sure they get it.”

He went to hand it to her, but before she could grab it, he jerked it back a little, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Of course I do, I’m just surprised you did. We talked once; you were having problems with your friend. Well, boyfriend I guess. Felt bad about it. At a bar? A pub, I mean.”

He opened his mouth, then shook his head with a smile. “Yeah. We’re getting married now, me and him.” He handed her the envelope and she took it quickly, before he could yank it away again. “Make sure they get that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I said I would.”

“All right.” He smiled at her and shifted his weight again, looking her up and down. She went to shut the door, but he cleared his throat. “Wait.”

“What?”

“You violated me.”

_“Excuse me?”_ she hissed.

“I’m not angry about what you did in the other . . . place. Hell, anyone would’ve. But we shouldn’t have been there in the first place, and that’s what gets me. You nearly killed me. Sandy? Her death was on _your_ shoulders. I don’t care if you remember or you don’t, but you almost caused a bloody apocalypse and had the nerve to put that shit on me, blame me.”

So the wish had been granted; somehow, he’d unlocked the failsafe. And now he had the nerve to show up at her friend's doorstep and blame her for his own actions? “It was your wish. Maybe you need to think twice before you--”

“You need to stop granting wishes, more like. I had no idea what I was doing and you know that, you know every single person whose wish you grant doesn’t know a damn thing about what they’re doing. You’re the one who does it, you’re the one who sneaks up and grants it without them knowing, and then you blame them for your actions. Psychotic, that. Bit entitled, too.”

“How _dare_ you--”

“You preyed on me and ruined my life, his life, and everyone else’s, too, nearly ended the world, over something I said without meaning it.”

She scowled at him, looking him from head to toe. What did he know about wish granting? What did he know about anything, about her, about life? He was a puffed-up pop star with delusions of grandeur, angry because for once in his life, his actions actually had consequences. “Are you done?” she snarled.

“Just one more thing.” His lip curled. “You’re not invited.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, an annoying bounce in his step.

Jeannie scowled at his back. “What an asshole,” she muttered, and slammed the door shut.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are welcomed!
> 
> If you feel like it, please help me see Take That this summer (I live in the United States) by donating [here](http://www.gofundme.com/t4ncb35w). Due to an emergency bill, all the money I had saved up for the plane tickets is gone. A little goes a long way!


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